I've been saying for years I would get around to learning how to play piano. I kinda started trying to pick it up in college, but there wasn't really anybody to explain to me basics and back in the day we didn't have all the wonders of the internet that we do today (omg I'm so old).
Anyway, so I broke down and bought one! It's nothing crazy special, but I did make sure it had the full 88 keys and fully weighted hammer action keys and all that jazz so it's as close to a real piano as I can afford. Today was pretty hectic so I only sorta scratched the surface getting together basics of what NOT to do and then started learning scales and how you're supposed to move your fingers over/under to get the basic idea of how your hand sorta... there must be a word for this but you get a tuck and move sorta action going. And I have to say, there is a night and day difference on this keyboard versus the ones I tried to use more than a decade ago, this feels so much more like a real piano that it's almost annoying, my fingers have unequal strength and responsiveness right now, so that tuck and go motion gets me sometimes, the left to right motion of the right hand catches me if I'm not paying particular attention to my thumb for the tuck maneuver. That should get easier in time.
I might be super lame, but after an hour I can finally do that mostly correctly, and I was super proud of myself for learning this. I'd like to spend longer, but I think the most I can really budget and stay faithful to is about 1 or 1 and 1/2 hours a day toward this, but I'm pretty happy with that progress. I also have Mary had a Little Lamb stuck so thoroughly in my brain now that I want to eat a shotgun and my fingers keep trying to twitch toward where the keys should be.
Found a lady that gives lessons locally and sent her an email to get that sorted, so I'm quite looking forward to this. I like the idea of having a goal to work toward that I can ever improve upon, especially when I get frustrated/anxious/depressed about actual life. Perhaps that way I could escape into something meaningful and worthwhile instead of moping or feeling bad.
On another note, I remembered a thing from a very long time ago, because I was standing outside on my front porch and I still keep my Christmas-style white string lights on my porch because when all of us hang out on the porch it provides nice lighting. Don't even know why I remembered this. So have a random memory.
Work starts at one pm. Each day, I stay until at least ten pm, and drive home afterward. It is Christmas, so we have decorated our home with Christmas lights to festively welcome Santa. We can't do much, because we don't have the money, but we can afford a few strings of lights for the front, and a string around the indented, shaded-by-trees carport. One day a lady with a child (perhaps about five?) waves to me as I pull into my carport and I see her kid grinning and pointing, and I wave back. I remember when I was his age, and seeing those lights was a wonder.
As an adult, it hardly seems special. I am twenty-one years old, and I can barely imagine anymore what it was like to be his age, but I can vaguely recall that amazement crystalline in his eyes when his mouth tilts open and he points, and his mother smiles and waves at me. Christmas passes, and we take the lights down. Except for the carport lights; we like those, it gives ambient light to a dark carport, and we're fine leaving them there indefinitely. We keep talking about taking them down, but I just don't want to. Maybe I'm lazy. Maybe I'm just short and can't reach them and we don't have a ladder and I don't feel like climbing. Who knows, but I'm not taking them down.
Weeks pass. It is now mid-February, and we still have Christmas lights on our carport. They're visible from the street and, while shaded through some trees, easily identifiable for what they are. I drive to work. I drive home. I rinse, wash, and repeat, and forget about that mother with her child. One day I'm driving home again and this time I see the kid and his mom again. They're both motioning to me, but my car window won't roll down; it has broken and it is too expensive for me to fix. I stop. After all, we're headed toward each other in a deserted side street, and I might as well say hello. I open my door slightly motioning that my window doesn't roll down. As I do, she lets down her window. At first I think they might be having trouble, I don't recognize them for who they were.
"We wanted to tell you that we look at your lights every night, and my son wants to tell you to never take them down. He loves Christmas!"
I laugh; a deep, genuine, rolling laugh. "I promise they'll stay up as long as I'm here! You guys be safe and have a great night."
She smiles, he smiles, they wave in tandem and drive away as I shut my door and pull into my carport. It is no problem to keep these lights on as long as I live here if it makes them happier to see them each night. It makes my concerns seem silly, even. I can't voice why I feel the way I do, but I feel that if I can keep these lights on, if they smile when they see them even though to most adults they're a bit tacky after the holiday, then who cares? Isn't it hopeful, isn't it incredible that something so simple makes them happy? If they feel joy because of something that I do, something that requires almost zero effort from me and hardly any money, who am I to deprive them of it?
This is one of those stories that has no ending, though. I moved on. The house moved on. The other person living in it moved on. I'll never know what happened after that. But for the space of several months, I kept those fucking lights up and on, because who wouldn't?
I have found myself in a strange position. I don't have many friends, and that circle has become even smaller lately. Never being overly social, I value my time alone, so it doesn't bother me too much. On the other hand, I find that when I allow myself too much time to think I get carried off on wild tangential paradoxical loops of thought that leave me wanting to peel my own skin off strip by strip in order to cease analyzing. In my mind, there's a list of people. It's not an ever present list, no, that would be far removed from the point the list serves. This list is my You're Dead to Me list. Basically, if I add a name to the list, I make a conscious decision and effort to not think about that person ever again, and will purposefully do everything in my power to avoid them at all cost up to and including deliberately turning away from them and walking in the other direction and pretending I do not hear them or even outright saying "You are dead to me, now go away".
It's easy to see why I don't like to add names to this list. It takes a lot of effort to make a conscious decision to never think about someone again. I can't even say that sometimes I don't think about the names on that list and go back over the situation that caused the addition, fiddling with endless permutations of possibilities in my head. What if I had said this, done this, been this, changed this, etc. Not only that, but I feel like a terrible person when I add to that list. It makes me feel unkind, cruel, selfish, obstinate, and narrow minded.
There's always endless internal debate before adding to the list. Did I cause this? Have I communicated effectively? Have I apologized for anything they sincerely feel was my fault, whether or not it was truly my fault? Did I demonstrate a willingness to compromise? Did I make it clear that I do not wish to end a relationship? That I have spoken my problem or position and clarified that enough?
Eventually, though, sometimes people get added to the list, reserved for the most heinous of infractions. The latest filled me with a white hot rage that would not subside then burned itself out to ashen depression. That lasted all of a day and then I somehow went into self-preservation mode and tacked one more name onto the list, then slid it to the back of my mind where it has stayed for several days. And I know you think well, Jamie, surely if you're thinking about it now, you've really been thinking about it this whole time. The answer to that is oddly no, no I have not, for once. It's quite strange to me how I was able to take this entire situation and think to myself "Hm. Well, if I had any doubt before, this certainly settles it".
I honestly don't think I've ever been this truly angry with anyone in my entire life before. This is a situation that is years in the making, but let's try to boil this down to a brief synopsis without losing too many of the important factors involved. Sounds easy, but when you try to explain years upon years in the space of a few paragraphs, it becomes impossible. You either say too little or too much, and neither is productive. Still, I'll try.
Years ago when I was but a tiny fetus child of a mere twenty-one summers, I met a boy. In each other, we found pieces of what was missing from our lives. A great majority of those pieces, even. As with all things, time changed us. He became distant, disinterested, unenthusiastic, complacent. I grew restless, unfulfilled, resentful, frustrated. It culminated in a series of progressively worse fights and breakups and general hatred of each other, especially on my part. I will not lie, I have a long memory for grudges when I wholeheartedly believe I have been wronged. Eventually, I was tired of being left over and over (he always did the dumping... I always did the reconciling).
In his defense, I turned into a heavy drinker in that relationship. While I was by no means an "angry drunk", drunk Jamie is even more no-holds-barred than sober Jamie could ever imagine. When I was drinking, every one of my emotions was cranked to maximum wattage. If I was happy, I was ridiculously motherfucking jolly. If I was angry, beware the doom that approaches and avoid it at all cost. I never used to be an angry person, though, so angry drunk Jamie was never a thing. Until him. I began storing up all my feelings and resentments and anger and frustration and lashing out when sufficiently provoked. I will not say that my feelings were not valid feelings, but they were amplified to the point of distortion.
In my defense, he was reckless, had different values, and I can say now beyond a shadow of a doubt that he never put me at the same level of prioritization as I did him. My feelings/needs/values/dreams/hopes were simply not as important as his. Never were, never will be, and that's a cold, hard truth with which I will never be comfortable because it flies in my face as a failing on my part to recognize the situation for what it was in the moment. Even worse, it makes me think that I acted like some kicked puppy, beaten housewife, starved street urchin. He showed me the smallest bit of affection and instantly I believed he had my best interest always in mind, and gave my unswerving loyalty based on that assumption. What can I say? I was young. I was convinced, no, I knew that everyone was a good person and given the chance would always do right by me if I only made certain that I tried my best. 150%, eleven days a week, 548 days a year.
Suffice to say there was a lot of baggage there and we've piled on much more over the years. I have done my best to rip his still-beating heart from his chest with a fierce glare and scathing words, and he has (whether he admits or not) done the same to me with a different technique - indifference. Veracity is hard to ascertain through the lens of my own bias, so I can't say for certain with whom the fault originally began, or who worsened it, or who has caused the most harm. It was difficult for a long time to try to move past our differences and become something other than the embodiment of pure hatred for one another. We were not underachievers. With everything, we went hard. We loved hard, we fought hard, we hated hard, we were always that way.
Eventually, though, the time came when I got sick. And he came to see me in the hospital and decorated my room for Mardis Gras (a tiny faux pas on his part given that the nature of the holiday is copious alcohol consumption and I was, ya know, dying of the whole alcoholism induced liver death thing), and I was amazed that he remembered me and even cared enough to do that for me. I was in a haze still, and I felt terrible because I slept through a lot of his visit and couldn't eat anything he brought me because of the feeding tube stuck down my nose and the nausea, but I was in shock that he even tried. Everything then was still strange. Not normal strange. The I-can-tell-I'm-hallucinating-and-death-is-trying-to-take-me-and-the-drugs-are-doing-bad-things-to-me strange that so few people have ever experienced until it's their time to go.
Well, fast forward to last... um, late September? I think? Time runs together so easily as you age. I was freshly home from the hospital and adjusting to things. Still am, frankly, it's a lengthy adjustment. I was adulting as hard as I could, but there was no financial cushion, that had been depleted when I was in the hospital. Things were quite difficult, and I was not exactly happy. Even so, I took it upon myself to have an adventure. Partly because I wanted to prove to myself that I was not an invalid, that I was still capable, that I could do things by myself. Partly because I missed him terribly. So for the first time in a year, I was well and truly alone, because I flew to where he lives and got over to his place from the airport to visit. It was grueling. A month earlier I had still been using a cane to walk, and now here I was walking for miles unaided (on an unrelated note, bless that gentleman employee in the airport who I stopped to ask for directions to the car rentals and he took a look at me and out of nowhere asked if I wanted him to take me over in a wheelchair, that was exceedingly kind of him, even if I didn't take him up on the offer). Of course when I got there I was overjoyed to see him, but exhausted, feverish, unable to eat, and generally miserable.
I will never forget sitting alone in his apartment while he was at work and googling physician assisted dying and VSED. All hope in the world drained from me at that point. How could he ever love me? How could anyone ever love me? I'm broken. I don't work right. I felt like an iPhone with a cracked screen in a universe where there are no repair techs, only new iPhones. The overwhelming loneliness set in, and even lying right next to him when I could put my hands on him and watch him as he slept it felt like I was so insubstantial, so unnecessary that I might as well cease to be. Of course I never said this, I'd done enough bringing everyone down for the past year before that. So we spent the time talking, watching tv, ordering out for food that I mostly didn't eat, etc. Then I went home a couple days later.
The following November he conspired with my famiy. I'd told him I'd buy his car from him because he was trying to sell it, and I could get the money together within a few months at the most (honestly I was gonna make it happen by any means necessary, be they legal or no), but he had sort of let the conversation drop about that. Come to find out, they brought me the car. I was genuinely touched. I cried. He even drove it to where I live and was here to hand me the keys. At that very moment, I knew something was off. I can't explain how I knew, but I knew something wasn't adding up in my mind. I'd been reserved about everything we talked about, I felt that he had his own life to live and if he wanted me in it more he would say so. That time came and went, and he never said so, and I assumed that he was completely done with me romantically but that we had found a happy coexistence wherein we could value one another and help each other as the needs arise. I was happy with that. I felt proud of it, in fact. Seriously, I was so overjoyed that he would want to help me as much as I always wanted to help him, and that we could coexist without harming one another.
Then I made a terrible, terrible mistake. Our anniversary was Valentine's. Way to set the fuckin' bar, right? Can't just have a normal anniversary, we had to be extra as fuck and make that V-day. Anyway, I was texting him throughout the normal course of my days as I usually do. As the date came up, I realized he had done so much for me lately that maybe I should give back somehow. I thought of a few things. The romantic in me loved our anniversary, so I considered everything from sending him a ridiculous flower arrangement at his workplace just to draw the attention of his female coworkers so he could smile about being wanted on that day to flying down again briefly to hug him and spend the night and fly back. After all, airfare is not that expensive between our two locations, for a hundred dollars I can get a round trip ticket. In the course of conversation this came up because I've realized a lot of the time I do not say how I actually feel, so I told him as much and that I miss and love him.
BOOM MOTHERFUCKING KAPOW LIGHTENING STRIKE FROM THE GODDAMN HEAVENS OCCURS.
Apparently this son of a bitch came to see me in the hospital more than once. I don't remember it. He said he tried to get back together with me multiple times. I don't recall. He said it was over the course of multiple months. I have no recollection. I have interrogated people over this. No one seemed to know. I have gone through texts, there is no evidence. Alarm bells rang in my head. The only reason I know he came to see me more than once in the hospital is because I interrogated people who were at the hospital after the ensuing conversation. He never even told me. No one told me. Everyone thinks I remember these things because I acted lucid, but the truth is there are gaps in my knowledge after the surgery. Reflex-Jamie took over. The basest of Jamies, the very core of my being, the tiny voice inside my head took control and portrayed myself in a production in which I was not cast.
As for the ensuing conversation, it amounts to basically this, and you can tell by my use of hysterical all caps improper punctuation screaming text which one is me:
"I wanted us to get back together."
"WHAT. IN. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK."
"You told me it wouldn't happen."
"HOLD THE MOTHERFUCKING PHONE."
"I'm confused by that response."
"BITCH I AM CONFUSED BY YOU."
"I said it three times."
"EXPLAIN TO ME LIKE I AM A SPECIAL NEEDS CHILD."
"I said it three times."
"Okay so if you said this then I am not sure how I missed it because if you explicitly said this then I do not recall and I would tell you that honestly I do care about you and I would like to pursue this, because I feel like the fact that we even speak to each other after all these years says something about us both, so..." (And no, you, reader, can't know my personal thoughts about that, I am ashamed to admit them to anyone, even him)
Yeah that's about when the white hot rage set in, but I just said something to the effect of "I understand and I wish you well."
Lemme translate that for you. "I understand and I wish you well." Ahem, that means "I hope you die alone, scared, lonely, in pain, crying out for help, and I hope that it's all an illusion in your mind that you're actually moving. I hope that as you cry out your lips don't actually move and that you are in the bottom of a grave and a shovelful of dirt scatters across your face and into your eyes and I hope you can't move your hands to clear it and I hope it burns. I hope you gasp for air in the last moments and aspirate top soil and clay. I hope you will remember the day you met me as you slip into oblivion because I want you to know what you could have had and I want you to know misery intimately."
Wow. That got dark even for me. Still, it's self-preservation. My first thought as soon as he said that was damage mitigation. Disengage. Throw it away. Get as far away as possible. In so many words, I told him that I was dedicated to trying to pursue that if he wanted to, and he shot it down. Just. Like. Always. It makes me recall the days when I tried to voice my opinion and my concerns and got shot down. Just. Like. Always. I realized that while I love him, and I may always love him even in the midst of my hating him, that it's simply not worth it to engage with someone who never sees the pattern of their actions. Never sees the lack of their own empathy.
Ya know, I don't like the idea of never speaking to him again. I haven't blocked his number and I won't; there is always some path toward reconciliation so long as communication remains open. Will I ever initiate a conversation again? I doubt it. I've been dumped a few times by him, and we're not playing that game anymore. I had always wondered how he was so unaffected by any problems, how he could maintain his concentration and goals and everything else around him and disregard the time bomb in the middle of the room when we fought.
Then I realized, he simply shelves it. He doesn't let it get to him, he lets it go, he simply doesn't. It's the lack of action or forethought or insight or motivation to change which is so appealing to me. Also terrifying. I do not like that course of action. It seems tantamount to sociopathy to me. I care, deeply, about everything, always. And it hit me. The only possible solution is to add him to the You're Dead to Me list.
The opposite of love is not hate. It is indifference. He has shown that to me in each and every altercation we have had in conflict and I never understood it until now.
I can hope that perhaps the situation may change someday, and I am not ruling out that hope. However, I am a realist. The glass is never half empty nor half full, it is simply equidistant between two states of opposing existence. Realizing that I may never speak to him again, I am sad. But I have to keep going. I cannot be the person who cares for others all the time. I cannot be concerned with things that don't further me. The impetus lies with him if he ever wants to speak to me again.
He's dead to me now. I mourn him in my own way. I may never be able to be indifferent. But I have learned to shelve a bitch.
When a major life event occurs you deal with its lasting effects. You're left with the fallout of what transpired and you move on as best you can. Sooner or later, it becomes as if a dream. Even faced with the lasting evidence of this event, your memory colors it in such a manner that it blocks out the most painful moments, the most meaningful moments, just as a coping mechanism to go back to the grind of everyday living.
During my hospital stay when I had my liver transplant, I was not the best patient at first. It is incredible what organ failure does to your brain. You become confused, irritable, unmanageable, angry. Once (and this is from multiple third party references because I was not there mentally for the time it happened) a nurse was trying to help me, and she looked at me, and I looked angry. She could tell that I was going to try to swing a punch. From what I am told, she deftly avoided it and just said "Yep, thought he was gonna try that."
Anyway, there was one nurse who gave enough of a fuck to write me a letter. Her name is NOTYOGODDAMNBUSINESS, and I'll call her Genericname or GN for short.
She wrote this eloquent, two page letter telling me how I'd inspired her to be a nurse (she was a student at the time). There's a lot of detail there, and I'll add that later if you're interested but I just have to translate that into something that does not identify her. It all boils down to when I was in the hospital and swearing constantly because I was in pain and upset and she came in the room and I just told her "DO NOT count to three. Stab me and do it quick."
She was amazing. She grabbed my arm and pinched and just stabbed me and was like "DONE!". No cause for anxiety, no way to even retaliate, just she did it so fast I couldn't even come up with a way to complain about it. Skillfully, too, because she got me right in the muscle when I was emaciated, not easy to do.
Now we converse on occasion. It's quite nice to see things from her perspective. She's one of the people who told me (and one of the few who knew quite intimately) that I was knocking on heaven's door when I went to the hospital that first time. She was there for good and bad days and kept track of me. I never even realized it, I was too caught up in my own pain to know someone was trying to help me. And because I was all caught up in my pain I never realized what was going through her head. This is her letter, paraphrased, with all identifiable information removed.
"We rejoiced when you would ask for chinese food or a subway sandwich. I loved dancing in the halls when I saw you coming walking or in a wheelchair. There was a sign on your door because you were so mean to nurses, which said 'Do NOT enter unless authorized!' which to me said, unless you are *me*, don't come in here because he doesn't like you!
Some days I fail a test, or this gets overwhelming and I feel like I can't do it, I just want to throw in the towel. Then I remember you. So far, nobody else has ever told me that I can come hide in their room and nap if I needed a break. You made my experience as amazing as it was.
Even if I can't heal you, I hope I made your experience bearable. When I heard you might need a kidney, I wanted to give you mine.
You make me want to be a better nurse. I hope you know how incredible you are and how much you impacted my career. You make me want to be better."
For the time being, thats the basis of the letter. I just wish it were more appropriate to allow folks to come down to a level where we can understand each other. She did that for me. She could lose her job if I divulge her personal details, because it's not professional. But it's human, it's okay, it's a good thing to voice your feelings and try to help each other.
Btw the nurse was a he, so now ya feel dumb, huh?
Seriously, the world would be better if we could simply communicate better. It's hard for me to tell someone else I'm suffering and to ask for help. It's hard for other people, too. I just want to help. I don't want to be remembered as a monster who couldn't empathize, I want to be remembered as someone who tried their best to help others. I want my legacy to be there, I want to make sure that someone else has been taught that no matter your personal urges or any mistakes you've made or any other factors, that is okay as long as you keep your fellow man in mind.
It is okay to just try your best. I, if no one other, will value you for that. Pain every day does not exclude me from appreciating you.
"Here is Insanity," he said. "Make sure you don't stay long, the flight in is super cheap but the flight out? Good luck if you can even get a flight, not to mention how much you'll pay for it."
I looked around and recognized nothing. It was blissful. I couldn't tell what was bad or good, I had no sense of self or purpose, I lost, well, everything. It was so nice just to be. I thought I'd stay forever.
"Yeah man, it's kind of like day two-oh-six of a drinking binge, seven days awake on meth, the feeling of getting served divorce papers in a 'happy' relationship, your newborn having cancer, I mean some folks just call it shock, but it's not a good place to stay. Seems comfortable, but don't do that."
I disregarded everything he said. Looking far afield I saw what looked like the kind of grass they grow in stadiums, plush. Sunny, too, and with this cool breeze I just wanted to nap there for a few years. Walking over, my leg started twitching. It twitched again, jerked, spasmed, until I had to fall to my knees. I pressed forward thinking it was a cramp; I don't know why I'd have a cramp here, but after all, it's Insanity, isn't it? My hands shook against gravel. Was there gravel here? Where is the grass?
The grass is gone. I'm looking at a burnt out hollow of ground, a crater. It's the remains of what I thought I was moving toward.
I didn't pay any mind. I shifted my thoughts. I remembered the boy in high school when he wore that hat with his blond hair peeking through the front. I remembered his eyes, his voice, his everything. He appeared. The world shifted again.
This time it was a classroom. He was next to me and a professor was droning on, and he tapped me lightly on the foot. I didn't feel confused although I vaguely thought I should be. I blushed, even. Here is this boy playing footsie with me, and I liked it. The class ends finally and we walk outside and he asks me out. I tell him sure, and time flashes again. We're at a restaurant and the waiter has my order wrong. I politely don't mention it, but then I look up and the boy across from me has a face crawling. Not crawling with anything in particular, just crawling. It roils, it moves, it distorts, and I feel wrong. I want to vomit.
I run. Time flashes. We are in a room. We? What room? I have no knowledge of who or where I am, or how, or why. When is not important until I see the sleeping face next to me. When. It is years ago and I see the face of someone I loved dearly in bed beside me. I want to hold them, I immediately feel as if I need to protect this person, I want them to be happy. I no sooner finish draping my arm around him than the arm drops right through him. He is not there. I see him, but he is not there.
I flail at the covers, I snatch sheets and pillows and gasp because I can't scream. He is right there, and I cannot touch him. He moves, further and further away, but I can still smell him, I can still feel the heat of him. Clambering for him, I fall off the edge of the bed. Time flashes.
I'm back home. I'm in my own bed, in the right time, in the right place. Sweating, heaving, I look and see nothing. There's not even a faint hint that anything has happened until he shows up. He tells me "This is Insanity. Make sure you don't stay long."
Skip my bullshit minor problems if you want a good story and scroll to the bottom.
On 12.11.18 I went to go get my meds from Walgreens, the ones I have to take or I die (anti-rejection meds), and they only had a partial refill. I thought fine, I have plenty of extra for a few days just in case, and you'll obviously reorder, so that's okay, I assume pharmacies overnight their drugs when needed.
Last Sunday I called. No answer after fifteen minutes, the phone just disconnected. I gave up because I was about to have to work.
Monday I called, no answer. Monday night I went in physically and asked for my drugs. "Don't have them, outta stock, but we'll have them Wednesday."
I freaked out 'cause I'd taken the last of my extra the night before, so I was like don't freak out, it's going to be okay, just handle this. My mom got outraged, she called them the next day, Tuesday, and they then magically had exactly enough for one dose. I went in Tuesday night and picked that up and was assured they would have what I needed the next day.
Called Wednesday, took a while but I finally got a person, who said no, they're not in. But I can call tomorrow to check. I don't feel up to arguing most times, I'm tired, and in pain, and I don't want to be a mean person or take out my frustrations on someone who can't do anything about it, so I let that go.
I have decided, however, to declare a vendetta against Walgreens. I intend to wake up tomorrow (today?) much earlier than I should, and find these drugs elsewhere. They're not commonly carried, so that'll be an issue, but I am sure that some pharmacy in the area must have them, so I shall check. But I will never shop at Walgreens again.
They have officially tried to murder me twice, and I do not appreciate that. Fool me once and all that jazz. I hold extremely long grudges, so I'll just make sure to spread the word that they failed to deliver not once, but twice, and maybe some folks will switch to CVS. I'm not going to get anywhere by just yelling about it, but I like to take quiet revenge, like hurting their bottom line in sales. One dose of my medication is $83.69, so I mean... who's really gonna suffer here, me because you didn't do what you were supposed to, or you because I'm gonna fuck your wallet like a meth-head in heat?
Before you say anything 1.) I only use Walgreens because they're the only 24-hour pharmacy where I live and I work nights and the stress and depression and anxiety make it such that I need what little sleep I can get when I can get it, so they're convenient and 2.) Yes they are a corporation and they probably don't care that much about my business but it's still nice to take my business elsewhere and make sure others do the same so that they can't milk me for insurance money for an overpriced prescription which literally costs a few cents to manufacture (and the manufacturer gets government money because it's designated an orphan drug, so don't talk to me about how they have R&D overhead or some such nonsense, they have no reason to price this so far out of reach of the common public, and I know I should be mad at the drug manufacturer for that, but Walgreens buys the drug and sells it and PBMs get kickbacks for charging my insurance far more than it really costs, so maybe they should be the ones to take corporate responsibility and pressure the manufacturer to lower their cost so it IS more widely available and not so terribly expensive).
On other notes, I have been told I am beautiful twice in the last 48 hours. My roommate's friend was on Facetime with my roommate, and she asked to see me, then declared "WHY ARE YOU SO CUTE, I WOULD BANG YOU IF YOU WEREN'T GAY!" Another person told me that I am "...a beautiful person with a beautiful personality. I hope you realize this. I want you to be happy because you deserve it. All the selfless things you do, it amazes me. Don't ask me why, I'm just in my feelings and speaking from the heart. Your iPhone may not like it when you smile but I sure do."
I have a running joke with this person about how my iPhone won't unlock if I'm smiling when I hold it up, the facial recognition doesn't work if I'm grinnin' like a fool.
I do take issue with the quote I just put out. I feel selfish. I feel like he overestimates me, like I'm not that great, I just... I do the bare minimum. But then I rethink that and I think the bare minimum for me is more than what others might do, so maybe he's right (he also has shit parents, he seems very sad about himself on the inside but projects an air of certainty and bravado almost, so maybe he's just asking for me to continue treating him nicely, which makes me doubly sad because he should never feel that way, he's beautiful, inside and out, and I love him even when I hate him, but that's a random psychological aside)? I have to come up with more objective, logical criteria to evaluate his assumption, but I appreciate his sentiment, it made me cry for half a second and made me feel like what I do actually matters sometimes. I'm conflicted, because it's nice to hear this from him, because praise from him is rare, but I also feel like I don't really deserve it, I'm not special, I just try as best I can, and a lot of the time I fall short. I guess I need to stop analyzing and just take it for what it truly is, a heartfelt compliment that he didn't have to say to but felt he should, and those are the best compliments, ones that you're not socially pressured to give but give from the bottom of your heart.
My gas station lady that I talk to all the time invited me to her wedding, and the reception. I might go. I mean I'm glad for her, she works hard. Long, thankless hours. I might as well show up and clap for her in her happy moment. Maybe buy her a tiny gift, something she and her fiancee might be able to use, practical but inexpensive and thoughtful. Besides, when else can I rent a tux and show the fuck out? I'm an adult, we don't get to do that often.
I've been making a point to be grateful for things in my life. Like yeah man, it might suck being half crippled and in pain and depressed and anxious and can't get your drugs and work gives you hassles BUT!: if you make a list of things for which to be grateful, maybe that cancels out the negative. Maybe it makes life better. There's been a lot of studies about gratefulness, and they all show the same thing, which amounts to a cliched phrase: count your blessings. Negative bias doesn't have to be a thing if you recognize it for what it really is, just your brain concentrating on bad things instead of good things.
So I just tell myself, do blessing math. And then myself screams because I'm bad at math but I like the idea. But still gonna try it, because it's logical.
Also, my mother wrote a short story today and sent it to me. I am so glad she did, I love the idea of her spreading her ideas and thoughts because they're always so helpful and kind and thoughtful. I'm gonna leave this here for you guys, and I promise to tell her what you think of it, because she needs encouragement and positive thoughts because she's fucking amazing. But remember if she ever becomes an author I swear to Christ I'm gonna need each of you to pay three dollars to read it, because she deserves that money, and if you don't I will come for you. This follows:
THIS IS THE MAIN EVENT YOU GUYS I AM SO EXCITED THAT SHE IS WRITING AND MAKING SUCH WONDERFUL STORIES.
Thursday is wash day. Every Thursday. Up at 5:00 am, no matter what the weather. It can be cold, hot, raining, snowing, but it doesn't matter because it is wash day. It is Thursday. And I hate it.
The clock goes off and it is 5:00 am. It is Thursday. I climb out from under my warm covers and I make coffee. I dress myself and check in on four sleeping children before stepping outside. It is forty-eight degrees and a steady wind is coming out of the north as I light the fire under my pot. The whole world is gray, even my hands look gray. There is no sun to chase away the chill. I filled the pot up with water yesterday to get as much of a jump on things as I could. I go back to the porch and drag the first load off to the pot and wait until the water begins to bubble. Before this day is over, I will have washed bed linens, towels, and clothes for six people. It's what I do every week. I start every wash day the same. I tell myself that I will not cry today. But I do. I cry every Thursday. And I hate it.
I drop in the sheets first and go back to the house to start breakfast and wake him up. He has to be at work at 6:30. I make a pan of biscuits and a pan of gravy and five sack lunches. I set the table, pour two cups of coffee - one with cream and sugar, one plain - then I go wake him. We sit until he finishes his coffee and then he leans over, kisses me on the cheek, and then goes to wake the kids as I go outside. I don't see him again until 6:30 that evening when he comes home.
The sheets are ready. I dip them out of the boiling pot and put them over into the wash tub and run some water over them to cool them down a bit. Then I dump the next load into the pot. I scrub the sheet on the wash board. I try to be careful not to slop it over onto my shoes, but by the end of the day, it will happen. The front of my dress gets all the way through my slip down to my panties and up to my bra. No matter how carefully I start out, it always happens. And by now the sun is peeking out a bit. I run the sheets through the wringer and drop them into my rinse water. I stir them with a heavy stick and feel the muscles in my back and belly start to pull. I run them through the wringer again, rinse them again, wring them twice and then put them on the clothes line.
I have six lines that are a foot and a half apart. They run the entire length of the house perpendicularly. They are about six feet tall and I have several poles with which to prop my lines if they become too heavy and try to drag my laundry on the ground. If it rains, then everything goes into the shed.
After I get the sheets up, it's time to start my routine all over again. The next load comes out of the boiling pot, goes to the rinse tub, a new load goes into the boiling pot and I scrub, rinse, wring, rinse, wring, wring, and hang. I do this until all six lines are loaded. After the lines are loaded, I dump the pot, dump the tubs, put all of it up. I go inside and by this time my back is screaming and my hands are bleeding. The kids have long since gone to school. I take off my wet shoes, my wet clothes and I sit at my table in a towel. I eat a leftover biscuit smeared with butter. Then I get dressed, wash the dishes in the sink and go start taking clothes off the line.
I start with the first ones I put up. The sheets go back on the beds. Three sets of sheets and pilow cases for three beds. One for the girls, one for the boys, and one for me and him. Then I take the next load down and start ironing the shirts. I check each piece as I go along and patch what needs patching and sew what needs sewing as I go. I starch and iron at least seven men's button-up shirts, fourteen little boys' shirts, twenty-one pairs of pants, fourteen dresses, a couple dozen handkerchiefs, table cloths, and napkins. After everything is starched and ironed, folded and hung, I put it all away. All the sheets, the pillow cases, the towels, the wash rags, the table cloths, the napkins, the underwear, the socks, the slips, the shirts, the pants, the dresses, and I do this every Thursday. And I hate it.
Every Thursday I wake up with the same resolve. I tell myself that I will not cry this Thursday. But just about the time he walks in the tears always seem to flow. I try hard not to cry, but I hurt and I am exhausted, and there is still so much left to do before I can lay down to start hating the time until next Thursday. So I cry. I cry with great gusto to be so tired. I sob into my dish rag. I wail and hitch and heave. Snot runs down my face, my eyes puff up like I was stung by yellow-jackets, my face turns red and blotchy. I do this in between cooking supper, feeding the kids, and washing the evening dishes. Sometimes I think that if I just put my head in the tub and laid there until I was too tired to get up, then I could drown and it would all be over. This has been going on for so long that no one ever asks why I cry anymore. It's just a part of Thursday. And I hate it.
Then another week passes and it is Thursday. The clock goes off and it is 5:30 am. I get up, make the coffee and I go outside to start my pot. I come back in, but this morning he isn't still in bed. He's already dressed and sitting in the kitchen chair. He looks at me and just says, "Sit." So I sit.
He has never raised his hand or voice to me in ten years. But today, there is something different about him. He says for ten years he has listened to me cry every Thursday and he is tired of it. He says he doesn't ever want to hear me cry on wash day. He says it's gone on long enough. No sooner has he said this than a tear gets away from me and trickles down my face. He bangs his fist on the table making me jump. "I mean it!" he yells, waking the kids. I stand there, shaking in utter disbelief. The children slink in, peering through the doorway. They've never heard him talk like this to me and they look confused and scared. He bangs the table again making coffee jump up out of the cup and spatter on the table. "Not one more tear on wash day. Do you hear me? NOT ONE!" The last shout makes me jump again like a frightened rabbit. "Wipe your face," he says and I rub the back of my hands across my face. "Now go out front and get me my boots before I'm late for work."
I feel like my breath has left my body and won't come back. But, I pull myself out of my scared fog and onto my feet and go to the front door. I open it and I see his boots. They are sitting on top of a brand new washing machine. I turn and see his face. He is crying and smiling. Tears rolling down his face, kids behind him, still confused, and he says "We all hate Thursdays."
WHAT THE SHIT WAS THAT?! I mean maybe I'm biased, but the bitch has talent. What do you think?
I went to the gas station and like an idiot left my wallet, I just wanted to buy cigarettes (before you say it, yes, I know I'll get the cancer, I'm fully realizing that, I'm okay with it, I'm just gonna jump off a building when it happens, but for right now it keeps me sane, I like to borrow against my future, probably not healthy but we cope in our own ways). I went to the counter and he said "6.67". I reached for my wallet and SURPRISE, that shit is not there, because I've been so distracted today I forgot my whole life at home. I ran to my car and came up with 6.62. He just said "I have some pennies, it's cool" and reached for his own pocket.
So I went to my house and got a five dollar bill and brought it to him because today I had a compliment call from work, which means a $10 gift card or so, and I figured I should pay that forward for him being so nice to me (it was an army vet, he was so kind, so nice... I mean I kinda wanted to put his gun in my mouth, if ya know what i mean, but hey man, he does him and I do me, and I feel like he's not all about teh gey, so I was just like man, you are an awesome person). Just waltzed in and said "Thanks for not being a dick, my man." He said "No problem, thanks!" and we moved on from that moment, both smiling, because at that moment in time, we were both struggling, my limping ass going in there, him standing there probably considering how he's gonna burn that place to the ground, but we got to a point where we could both be happy.
Moral of the story: Don't be a cunt. You never know when someone will give you a %5000 return on your investment. I'm bad at percentages, though, so check my math there. It's either 500 or 5000 percent, fuck me, I'm not good with numbers, %500 percent, right? I mean you just move the decimals... goddamnit, math. I'm more a language guy. And I'm literally too lazy to google. POINT IS HE PAID A NICKEL AND NOW HE MIGHT SMILE FOR A FEW MINUTES.
Another side note, all of you here have been so... damnably nice. Jesus. Like for real, it makes me wanna cry, because I cannot believe that even a few people have said something kind. Keep on doing you, you guys. I wish you all the best. I've learned lately that:
If you never say anything, nobody can help. You might feel like you're causing drama, or anxiety, but unless you yell as loud as you can no one will pay attention.
A lot of the time I don't like to talk about what goes on inside my head very truthfully or directly. I almost feel ashamed or dirty whenever I talk about it. I hate the idea of talking about my thoughts and being rejected, made fun of, laughed off, or the worst possible consequence which would be making another person feel worse by sharing what I'm thinking. The voices in my head shout alarms, and I end up in a strange state of being where I'm at once having a panic attack and also telling myself I don't care and to calm down.
I'm sorta beaten down right now. My medical situation is not improving as much as I'd like. My platelets dropped again, nosebleeds are constant, my right knee is screwed up and I've been back to using a cane the past day or so, I have mystery bruises from simply existing, I feel full/sick even when I know I haven't eaten, things like that are adding up. And I'm losing faith in my doctor. I mean he tries, but he's not so useful. I don't trust him, though. His lack of empathy, lack of understanding, lack of direction... they make me nervous.
As a for instance, the whole hernia thing. I told him when I saw it that it was getting worse, and he brushed it off. I mean I understand I'm not a doctor at all, but I feel like I'm right in being mildly disconcerted that there is a bulge underneath my skin that is growing each time I look at it, and today for the first time it didn't quite want to easily retreat when I laid down. I also don't think he knows what this really means to me even from a purely narcissistic standpoint.
I know I'm fucked up looking in the tummy area. I have a huge scar, things are not cute, it's just a mess. But before, at least I could be happy that I'm thin again. Now there's a weird fucking random ball thing showing up over my navel and I'm just like "PEOPLE CAN SEE THAT, THEY CAN SEE IT UNDER MY SHIRT, THEY THINK I'M GONNA HAVE AN ALIEN HOP OUTTA MY TUMMY AND EAT THEIR FACE, WE GOTTA DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS, NOW." Because usually speaking, when I'm anxious about something, I can take measures to fix it, but this isn't something I can fix, and I don't know how to proceed. As fucking pathetic as it is to say, sometimes I wish I had someone around me who when I feel ashamed or stupid or incompetent could just tell speak up and say "Hey dude, he told you what he needed to tell you, fucking do something about it."
I suppose that's sorta everybody's dream, thought, when life starts wearing on you. It'd be so nice to not have to pick up the burden for a while, just leave it to someone else, but that's just not practical.
Guess what I'm trying to say is I'm sorta hella sad lately. Not sure how to break out of it. I keep doing small things, trying to talk myself through my random down moments, trying to focus on progression and responsibility, trying to push myself to do or be more, but I feel like such a failure when I can't even do stupid small things like go buy a case of bottled water because I like bottled water because it tastes better than tap water here but I can't pick it up because I'm too much of a fucking crippled piece of shit to accomplish that one, single, solitary thing. Not to mention things like reorganizing my bedroom, 'cause god forbid I try to move furniture by myself. The loss of your independence makes you bitter, agitated, and spiteful. I don't like to be those things.
Please send me cat memes, wholesome photos, snippets of inspirational text, or something to distract me from the mounting discomfort of my reality. I can pay with tiny short stories if you'll give me a theme, I like to trade on what I know.
Okay so ever since I got really sick and had to take that huge leave of absence and then I got back to work and I was still sick and have been out like four times in the last four months because of various things, I've been terrified of work. My job gives me panic attacks sometimes, I always feel like I'm going to get into trouble. Why do I feel like that?
Honestly, I'm a pretty great employee. I mean everything I do is right in line with what they want for the most part, and where I excel oh boy do I EXCEL. I take a serious sense of pride in measurable effects of my work. I like metrics driven judgment, I like seeing the numbers go to where they need to be, I like feeling like I'm making that happen. So again, why do I feel like that?
I have severe social anxiety and I work from home. I hide my anxiety extremely well. That's my coping mechanism (that and horribly inappropriate dark humor). I fake it until I make it, so if I'm nervous around you, then I'm going to pretend I'm not until I don't feel that way anymore. The issue is when you work from home and you have no daily interaction with your boss (or even monthly a lot of the time) or any other co-workers. Don't get me wrong, I love not peopling, but it has downsides, like me always thinking they might secretly hate me because I can't look at them and figure out from their body language and tone how they feel.
Now that you have context, lemme explain what had happened today. I logged on, bleary-eyed and sipping a Red Bull and checked my schedule and email. Surprise meetings, multiple. I was like "WHYYYYYYY?!?!?!?! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE, ISN'T IT ENOUGH THAT YOU WANT ME TO TALK TO IDIOTS ALL DAY? I WILL GO FULL WHITE GIRL RIGHT NOW, I SWEAR TO CHRIST, I CANNOT EVEN."
My first thought was they were going to try to write me up for missing a few days because of the whole sick then hernia then doctor visit two states over then possible surgery sometime soon yada yada yada, like maybe they're just tired of dealing with me. Turns out, they just assigned me a new quality person for scoring my contacts who wanted to go over some goals and that meeting was basically "So all your numbers are fine, whatcha wanna talk about? Btw you really don't spend a lot of time on the phone with people, I mean they seem to love you, but feel free not to rush if you don't wanna. OH and did you accept the new... wait, nevermind, forget I said anything."
I was like erm... huh?
Next meeting was a job offer. Surprise! A mostly lateral move, but with a good bit more opportunity for advancement and incentives. Not to mention far, far less boring.
All this just after they decided to start listening to me about quality procedures that were making life hellish. I have to admit, I'm pretty happy with this direction they're going. They're really listening to employees, taking the good ideas, running with them, and getting a lot better. I'm sorta weirdly proud of them. I haven't exactly worked for a company that's made me feel valued to the degree they have. The beaten down corporate slave in me wants to scream "FUCK YOU AND YOUR CORPORATE GREED!" just as a general reaction after years of abuse in the service industry but the person in me is like "...dude, thanks for listening and trying, that's hella nice of you."
I'm genuinely surprised, and I have that tiny spark of possibility back. I mean not gonna lie, still crazy depressed and generally filled with ennui, raging against the dying of the light, screaming into the void each day and hoping something dares to answer back, and I know you think I'm exaggerating but I'm really not, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Good old Bob Ross always said you have to have opposites in life, good and bad, light and dark, to make you appreciate the good times later. If these times have been that dark, then one can assume that perhaps it's merely preparation to appreciate more fully the nice times ahead.
In other news, I am refusing to admit it anywhere other than here, not even to friends or family, but the fact that Ryan/Chad and I no longer talk does make me sad. The tiny psychologist that lives in my mind, however, keeps telling me "Don't be sad, remember what was wrong with him, remember his faults, remember how hard you tried and never forget that you tried even when you doubted it would work from the start. Do not give him the time or the energy it takes to be sad, celebrate the happy memories you made, take what you learned, build from it. And who knows, in days, weeks, months, or years from now, you may be able to forgive him and be friends again, after the hard feelings pass. It would be doubly sad if you hardened your soul against future possibilites because of something that was truly neither of your faults (though it was entirely his fault)." <--- that last bit, my inner psychologist is a bit of a bitch, oh well.
In that same vein, I have another ex, the ex that I still talk to and love dearly. His given name is Taylor, which is what he goes by now, but I call him Primus, which is a whole story. It's not like I-wanna-be-with-him-forever sorta love because he is my one and only and we're destined or whatever, but because he's him. Our sexual chemistry was always amazing, he's so intelligent, so thoughtful. Have you ever met someone who just looked at you, took in the state of you, stared into your eyes, grabbed your hand, and said "You need a massage and a blowjob, I can tell you had a rough day"? He literally did that one day while I worked at a horrible job. Even when you thought you were doing okay for that day, and then that all happens and the last thing your conscious mind registers is "I love you, mister" and careful, attentive hands running through your hair and over your back before you fall into sweet oblivion and wake up just to do that all again? We shared a lot, we have a bond, and I have to say I care about him probably more than anyone else I've ever cared about.
I feel like he's making a grave mistake, though. Basically he's really worried about his job, because there's a whole thing that happened with his company and they lost about half their revenue because a contract fell through. He's moving out of his apartment because the rent is so high ($1700 for a one bedroom, albeit a very nice apartment). He also decided to move in with an ex of his, from way back before we were ever together, that he's been fraternizing with for the last couple years, and I see this for what it is because I've done it before.
That boy likes you, and you're in a situation where your fiscal responsibility must come first. So you trade on your looks and personality to live with another person who finds you attractive, and at least pays half the bills (or far more if you try hard). You may not find them attractive at all, and you may never even touch them, but for them to feel the possiblity of something they yearn for, they will pay for it.
It's a dishonest move, and it makes me feel a bit upset, but I don't blame him for it. In the real world, nobody cares about your morality, only your ability to pay or trade your way. I just sincerely hope he doesn't regret it. This particular person Primus moved in with HATES me. We have never met in person, I've spoken to him over the phone maybe twice. Primus and I were just planning a visit again before all this happened, and now what I think is basically I won't see him for another year, minimum. Sad to say, but I don't feel it's helpful for me to be around him in this sorta situation; his housemate might get bitchy if I'm around, and I have a severe allergy to drama.
If he'd have waited another month, I'd have just said let's move in together without these additional dramatic factors. I'm not opposed to moving anywhere. I work remotely, and I'm always open to opportunities. And before you say that would be toxic, I'd make sure that moving in together with him would be extremely clear, like we might bang a little, but you have no power over me, and I will always pay my bills, but we're both mature enough to know that we have separate lives and will make our decisions accordingly.
I kinda feel really sorry for him. I love him. He's the only person who came to see me in the hospital during tough times, and he made my day, he tried so hard, and I will always cherish him. I hate to see him in this situation.
It's difficult to see my friends go through things I went through ten years ago and be powerless to help.
A funny thing happened to me while I was at work the other day. I will preface this by saying you have to understand the context to get the punchline the universe delivered. I've been dealing with major problems, like life or death problems, and usually if something goes wrong it's a trip to the ER and then admission and then days before they let me go. I felt a small victory in the midst of dealing with this because it was so comedic in comparison to what I normally deal with.
So I was at work, been trudging through my days, grim determination fueling me. It's just how I am, I address everything at work with an idea of "How can I accomplish this task with efficiency and grace?"
Anyway, I had to sneeze.
So I did. And I sneezed so hard. It tore the walls asunder in my office, it moved me backwards twelve feet from my desk, my heart skipped over a double-dutch rope and back into step, I almost died. That's hyperbole, but you get my drift.
After that, I just continued working. If you've done the same thing quite literally 100,000 or more times, you just get in a zone when you do it. Later in the day, I took a shower, and realized I had a strange, um, protrusion? From my navel. Where they'd done a lot of surgeries.
Turns out, I sneezed myself a hernia.
I have to say, I laughed. I called my nurse from my insurance and she asked me the same questions I asked myself, and it's no big deal, might need surgery, but it's nothing pressing (except for my insides pressing towards my outsides, hey-yooo! ~finger guns~).
I thought you guys might get a laugh out of that. We all eventually come to the age where we can sneeze and injure ourselves. Thankfully, mine is minor, and doesn't include urinating on myself in public if I sneeze. It could be much worse.
On another note, I've been having trouble. I feel empty most times, I feel like I'm spinning out again. I don't like that feeling. I know what I have to do, I just simply have to be better. I've been depressed, and that's a whole other story. I truly don't know if life can ever be what I wanted. I'd explain how I feel, but I also think that if I give those words semblance, that if I say them, I have given them power and they will define my existence. I prefer to face my depression and anxiety in a more warrior style, fighting it at every step, sometimes murdering it ruthlessly for the gain of happiness for an afternoon.
I do wonder sometimes if it will ever get better. And the answer, unequivocally, from the universe is that yes, yes it will, if you keep on fighting. Sometimes that fight is degrading and demoralizing. Sometimes I curl into a ball and just hope, unabashedly. But as long as I hope, there can be a beginning tomorrow.
Edited because I misspelled "Protrusion". Thanks!
I have a set of values I tend to try to live my life by, nowadays. I've culled these from various sources, trying to be as objective as possible when evaluating how this can impact my life without regard for where I initially picked up the idea. Like for instance, a lot of what I believe and try to live by is blatantly stolen from Christianity, which would have once left a sour taste in my mouth, but now I recognize it for what it is. It's just a good idea with a sordid past because of people who preached a particular tenet and then didn't live by it. Doesn't mean it wasn't a good idea, just it was appropriated by not-so-good people at some point.
I say that to lead up to an event that has transpired recently. I have made it a point to never, never lie anymore. No matter how uncomfortable it may be, or how awkward it can make things, I just don't do it. I'd rather be an honest asshole than a fucking liar. And before you say it, I know that yes, there is a point where that could be taken too far, but I still find radical honesty to be a good thing in my everyday life. As with everything in life, that gets broken down further as you begin to add nuances to the value itself. So my core value could be summed up as simply "Never lie, no matter what".
Another point I've taken from a different source expounds upon that. "Especially do not feign affection." I feel like that's the worst of all the lies one can tell. It's not only a lie, but a malicious lie at that. It's a lie wherein the very nature of the lie is going to cause more harm than it could ever produce good. Ya feel me?
Anyway, suffice to say, I started dating again. I know, I'm supposed to be careful about that sort of thing, given the whole trying to be sober and productive deal. But let's face it, sometimes I get lonely, and it is very nice to know that I still have a modicum of game left. And man, ironically enough, I have much more than a modicum. So here's the skinny, you guys and gals.
I was seeing a gentleman named Brian. He's a sweet guy. Moderately attractive, a little younger than I am, fairly good head on his shoulders, not what I'd call perfect by any means but therein is a large part of his charm. He might not be rich, he might not be stunningly handsome, but he's genuine, and witty, and when he senses there's something wrong he's not afraid to back you up however he can just because he is your friend and wants to see you happy and successful. So in my book, great friend, and I'll be keeping him. He's already been notified that he's been collected and he belongs to me now.
So we went on a couple dates and generally hung out. I made it extraordinarily clear from the beginning exactly what my situation is, that I have no idea what I want out of a relationship right now, and that the only thing I'm offering is companionship, friendship, and generally wanting to see what happens if we hang around each other.
Fast forward a little. Brian and I had been talking and hanging out, having fun, nothing crazy. Out of nowhere, a guy I've had a crush on for more than ten years decided he wanted another chance. I harbored a lot of thoughts like "Well last time it was really my fault, wasn't it? I mean I wasn't the best person, and the circumstances were wrong, and maybe there's something to this..."
You know I was going to go for it, probably, regardless of what he really said. Then he started doing things to really make me believe him. He started talking about moving in together, a future together, doing things for me that he didn't have to do... like trying to buy things for me, going apartment hunting and sending me photos and videos like "Wouldn't this make a cute office for you?", that sort of thing. It really got to me, I was like finally, someone who understands what I mean when I say I think about things in longer terms than most people.
Btw his name is Ryan. Actually though, that's his middle name, and his first name is Chad. Not to be insensitive to all of you kind souls accidentally named Chad, but Chad is a notoriously douchey name, so we're gonna call him Chad now, okay?
So I told Brian immediately and told him I wanted to continue being his friend just as I'd originally said from the outset, that nothing had changed there, and he understood immediately. He was a little bummed but not upset, and we have remained amicable and we still talk every day. But I had to give Ryan, goddamnit I'm sorry I mean CHAD, that cunt, a chance. You know how that is, when you have that drastically idealized image of a person in your head and you're just like I MUST HAVE THEM.
Long story short, I knew something was going on with Chad probably a week after we started dating. Things just weren't fully adding up. It was like he was trying to distract me from any real conversations we might have. I knew he had some insecurity issues, and he's also got some lingering crazy (but come on, what gay man raised in South Mississippi got out of that unscathed?). We spent a week together at my place because he drives for a living so he's hardly ever in one spot for long, but he had vacation time to use.
At first, everything seemed fine. There was one major thing getting to me, though. All of his affection felt forced, almost. Like he'd hug me, or kiss me, or touch me, but it didn't feel 'right' somehow. I mean I thought perhaps I was just paranoid, at one point I fell asleep on the couch while we were watching some show and he picked me up and carried me to bed (WHO DOES THAT?!). So you can understand how at first I thought perhaps I was carrying on about nothing.
He finally leaves, and I texted him like I always do, and the conversation eventually led to this whole feeling I got. He went silent. It was like I got ghosted outta nowhere for two days. And I was upset! I like to think I'm a big boy and other people don't affect me, but damn it, I liked that little fucker and I spent time, effort, and money on him. Back in the day I would've gone completely insane, like to the point of making him HATE ME by the time I was done with him. But no, I've gotten a bit better, so I just let it go, kept my calm. Eventually, I texted him and told him he's been quiet, which is so unlike him that it's obvious something is going on. He tried to deny that, and I told him point blank that I didn't believe him and pointed at my evidence calmly and asked him what was going on.
Turns out, it's exactly what my worst fear was. He decided he's not interested in me in that particular way. He still wants us to be friends, and I do believe him on that point. Sorry, though, but I can't be his friend anymore. I understand that may be selfish of me, but I'm definitely not interested in being around someone who would do that to me. He had full context of my position, full understanding of my feelings, and he still chose to not raise this issue but forced me to pry it out of him. Which if I hadn't, I could still be wasting my time for God knows how long until we had time to spend together again in person and the issue cropped up again.
I'm not about that fake life, sir. He has all these ideas about how his partner should be, how his life should be, how he wants things to turn out. And he gets frustrated when things fall apart or don't live up to his unrealistic standards.
And please don't think I'm faulting him for not being into me. I can completely understand how attraction works in a relationship, and if it isn't there it simply isn't, there's no fixing that or changing it. What I am faulting him for is for feigning affection. That is a lie. It is a malicious, hurtful lie.
I'll admit I spent two days lying in bed wondering what was wrong with me, what I could have done better, how I should've handled things to avoid this. What I eventually got out of that two days was just a small life lesson. Never stay alone with dark thoughts. Most of your fears come from things like stress, being tired, being alone, being in pain, etc. You can never make choices for other people or control how they act, but you can control how you respond to your surroundings.
I just chose not to be sad about it. It was a quick lesson in the grand scheme of things, it only took a couple of months for me to figure it out. It doesn't give me any reason to believe that I'm destined to be alone forever. It also doesn't mean that everyone in the world is going to be like that.
Also, I fully realize I sound like a twelve-year-old girl right now, and this sounds insignificant, even trivial. Here's why it's significant to me. I have spent more than a year in mind numbing physical pain. I have spent most of that year wondering if I'm going to die soon, sooner, or now. Last night, for the first time since August of last year, I slept on my tummy again (dude it still hurt but oh dear sweet Christ there's something about sleeping on your stomach and the pressure it takes off all your other parts that's just so fucking NICE). I convinced myself, with dark imaginings that were spawned from that pain and hopelessness, that I'd be alone forever and that no one really would love me or care about me ever again. I was in a bad, bad place.
I trusted this person with a small piece of myself. I said to them "I don't have much of me left, most of it is gone, but there's a piece I mean for you to have. Here, this is for you. Please take care of it." The fact that I could do that makes me deliriously happy regardless of what they did with that part of me. I didn't think there was much left of me to give at all, but after all this has been said and done, I've realized that somehow or other, there's a lot more left of me than I thought.
Ever since we started dating, and even now that things have fallen apart, I've noticed kindness in the world much more than I once did. My heart swells up at it sometimes. I know it doesn't mean much to the average person, but sometimes a gentleman will hold a door for me and I thank them as sincerely as I possibly can because you know what? Some days it's hard for me to open heavy doors by myself. They don't know that, they can't know that, but they did it for me out of the simple kindness of their heart.
A lady at the gas station I always go to always has something kind to say to me, and she has no reason to. She's an Indian lady, you can tell she knows basic English, she's out of her element down here in Alabama, and she is always the one working there. Always. No matter when I go. Eight in the morning, ten at night. By all rights she should be tired, cynical, and angry. But she's not. She says hello, she calls out to me and asks me how my day has been, she commiserates on small annoyances and shares her small grievances as well, and by the end of it we are both smiling and wishing each other a happy rest of the day.
At the company I work for, I was on a leave of absence for just under a year. I missed all the events they had, and a ton of other stuff. Since I've been back they asked my opinion on certain process changes that were made in my absence and to be honest, this stuff was making my life hell. It was redundant, inappropriate, totally wrong in a customer service environment... I mean that's a whole essay I wrote them about it. Had a meeting a few days later and they said "Good news! We hate this, too! Your way seems better! Let's do that for a while." I was like um... seriously? And then they called and told me to come get a new computer because they're upgrading and my old one sucks too much to be upgraded, lol. And while I was in there picking up new equipment the lady that works in HR came up and handed me a gigantic company-branded tote bag filled with random merch from the past year. Shirts, hats, pens, pins, lanyards, journals, stationary, all kinda randomness. "You missed everything, so I saved some stuff for you."
That might not seem like a lot to you, but to know that someone went out of their way over the course of a year to make sure I didn't miss out on small things that make you smile as an employee... that's a nice fuckin' lady, yo.
Sometimes I have customers that are amazing as well. I'll be going about my business, because I make it a point to treat all of my customers with the same level of respect and genuine looking out for their best interests. I had a man just the other day, we had a complicated situation, I mean a really complicated situation. It gave me about five seconds pause before I started talking, which means if you took one of my new people and asked them this they'd have just frozen and started crying at the complexity. But if I'm anything, I am one capable bastard at work. I threw in all my tricks of the trade, rearranged a lot of things, kept it as simple as I could, tied it all up in a nice bow at the end for him and just asked "I know that was a lot, so do you have any questions about what we've discussed?" His reply? "When will you quit and come work for me instead?" Which is a nice compliment until you google this man and figure out that he's the CEO of a company that deals in grain futures, whatever that really means, and he's worth a hefty penny (his first name is also the name of one of my cats, so the whole time we were talking I was struggling so hard not to meow at him and ask if he needed scritches). "Yes, mister fluffy-pants, I understand you need a very nice car for your clients, but kit-kats cannot drive convertibles, yes? Have you ever driven a meowtervehicle before? I'm not kitten around. Do you even have the required depawsit? We don't take beans, no sir."
So I guess, moral of the story? Be brutally honest. Be unfailingly kind. Never feign affection. Don't stay alone with your demons, they will win if you do. Above all else, remember that you don't know everyone's full story, and that small act of kindness of which you barely thought, can make a huge difference to a stranger.
I love you all, thanks for listening to my crazed word salad of a blog entry. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, oh whatever the fuck you wanna call it, just have a jolly AF winter happy time, yo.
In September of last year, things in my memory get hazy quickly. Bits and pieces have come back to me over time that I now know to be accurate, but I still have to recreate what happened based on how my memory fits in with explanations from friends and family, text messages and emails, and my hospital records.
Since I was nineteen, I’ve been somewhat of a heavy drinker on and off. God knows what all the drugs I did in my younger days did to me. There were multiple times as a teen when I probably overdosed and just by sheer luck and the stamina of youth happened to pull through without any real incident. Repercussions never happened, I never paid for anything in a real way, so I never really worried about it.
At some point, though, I thought to myself that I better leave drugs alone. They’re expensive, they lead to other crime and dangerous situations, and I enjoyed my lifestyle too much to jeopardize it by getting in trouble legally. So in the interest of self-medicating, I turned to alcohol thinking that it’s relatively safe, relatively inexpensive, easy to obtain, and most important of all completely legal. The problem with this is that I never do anything in a normal fashion. No, I take it from a nice leisurely stroll to straight running a goddamn marathon overnight.
Without putting in too much work on details here, eventually I got myself into a really bad situation. I’d just broken up with my boyfriend of four and a half years, the longest relationship I’ve ever had. This is the same man to whom I considered proposing. After the breakup we attempted multiple times to remain amicable, but subconsciously I blamed him for everything. In my mind, he didn’t work hard enough, he didn’t pay me enough attention, he didn’t keep a steady job, he used up the money I worked hard to earn, he no longer surprised me, and ultimately these seemingly small failings amounted to a mountain I just wasn’t willing to climb anymore. We even lived together after the breakup, until I basically kicked him out of the apartment.
At the time I was working for a company which made me feel like I was Satan incarnate. It was finance, loans to be specific. High-risk, high-reward, predatory lending. And I was pretty okay at it, I just didn’t have the bottomless darkness in my chest where my heart should be to continue doing it. Still, we all have to make money one way or another, eh? Here I was, pretending to be a professional adult, pulling down ridiculous sums of money, but I was incredibly unhappy. To make myself forget the stress and the guilt, I started drinking more. And more. And more. A fifth and a half of good whiskey a night will let you sleep, no matter how much your conscience may protest. Time passed slowly, and I drank myself into a state of unconcern. My boss threatens to fire me for things that aren’t my fault? Drink about it. I’m having trouble finding friends in a new city? Drink about it. Feel like I’m wasting my life and potential at a job that makes me feel like a horrible person? Drink about it. Didn’t really matter what it was - drink about it.
I eventually quit in the manner I usually do when I’m sick of a job. One day I’d had enough. Sure I’d just bought a new car, signed a new lease, moved to a new town, started a whole new life, but damned if I could take it one more day. My boss asked me specifically to lie about a figure that was owed on a lawsuit we were filing and I believe my words were “I’m not going to jail for you cock waffles, fuck you, I’m out.” Or something to that effect, but it was quite clear I wasn’t stepping out for lunch and I wouldn’t be showing up the next day.
That, however, did not make things better in and of itself. Now I was broke. I was living far beyond my means. I had no doubt I could find a job immediately, but at the same income? Doubtful. There’s just not an opportunity like that around where I was living. But hey, a week later I had an interview and had a job back in cushy old customer service land, where they pay you decent money to talk to stupid people. Habits die hard, though, and now the concern was money. And what do you do when you’re worried about money? Drink about it.
About a year and a half ago, I noticed I wasn’t always feeling great. I was tired more easily, had more bouts of abdominal pain, and vomited for the first time in many, many years. I thought nothing of it at first, but it became annoying enough to go to a doctor. Thus began a terrifying series of misdiagnoses which I still can’t believe happened and would probably sue over if I still had the energy to pursue such things.
I got shaky and weak, the vomiting wouldn’t stop, and nothing helped. I was diagnosed with everything from diverticulitis to a UTI, none of which were accurate. That didn’t stop them throwing drugs at it, though. I went through CT scan after CT scan, with IV Contrast each time, and each time they missed it. I took rounds of antibiotics, downed pain pills and anti-emetics, but nope. I thought to myself that maybe it was just in my head, that stress was causing this.
Then I turned yellow. I mean full on hi-liter neon fucking you-could-see-me-glowing-from-space canary. I looked in the mirror one morning and saw it and thought “Well, fuck me, pretty sure my liver is pissed off at me.” I went to the hospital and got the reaction I expected, which was basically “Um, do you know that you’re really yellow?”
They’d previously run a liver panel and everything was fine. Only now it wasn’t. Enzymes had skyrocketed, and it wasn’t just my liver. My kidneys freaked out, too. The repeated IV Contrast, rounds of antibiotics, and the liver failure kicked their ass and I was losing kidney function. There was a lot of medical jargon, but it all amounted to this: You’re dying, there’s nothing we can do, you may want to call your family and friends to say goodbye, and we’re here if you want to discuss palliative sedation and hospice care.
I made a decision at that point. I wouldn’t call my family or friends. They didn’t need to be involved because of my poor decision making process. I had health and life insurance, and that would be enough to cover my care and cover any final expenses, which I assumed I would be able to get in line before I was no longer able to function. I didn’t realize how quickly I would deteriorate. I went home and by this time it was difficult to walk. I had swelling in my extremities that was quite painful, severe abdominal pain, and I was mildly depressed. I actually wasn’t terribly sad. I mean I’ve lived a pretty full life for my age. I’ve kissed (and done more than that) plenty of pretty boys, made mad money, lived large, had wonderful friends, and I’d long ago gotten over most of the major challenges in my life. I felt sort of ready, like this wasn’t the end really, just another thing that just happens that you roll with and see what happens.
Pretty soon the pain got too bad for just Oxycontin to handle. I was back in the hospital on massive amounts of Dilaudid and Ativan. Palliative sedation. It quickly went from relief, to being pretty high, to being mostly unconscious because with consciousness came serious pain. When I say pain, I don’t mean I-stubbed-my-toe-oh-gawd pain. Take the worst pain in your life, the worst thing you’ve ever felt, multiply that by a thousand, and that’s pain. No one tells you that dying hurts. I think they don’t want to scare you, but that’s a truth for which everyone should be prepared. Dying is not comfortable.
After a day or two, things went black. I thought I was dead. I don’t know how I thought I was dead, but I did. You’d think the act of thinking proves you to be alive, but things get really weird in your head when there’s that much ammonia in your body, when your brain is swelling that badly. Gradually, this notion faded and I started to dream.
I dreamed I was injured and in pain, hardly able to move. I was outside and there was no one around, just empty streets. Somehow I knew I had no home to go to, no one to help me, and I knew I had to either get myself safe and better, or I simply wouldn’t get better. I found a house, and it was so hard to get into the house. It wasn’t locked or anything, but getting up the steps, into the door, and looking around inside was enough to drive the breath from me and leave me crawling. There was a mattress on the floor of one of the rooms and it was all I could do to get onto it before I passed out again. I slipped in and out of consciousness in the dream (likely mirroring what was actually happening to me at the time).
Eventually I knew if I didn’t eat or drink I would die, and getting this far would count for nothing. I couldn’t move, though. I was spent. I could no longer lift my arms, my legs didn’t respond, really the only things I could still move were my eyes. A girl eventually showed up. She wasn’t remarkable in any way, really, except the look of concern on her face as she looked at me. I later found it strange that at this point I didn’t think to ask for help, or suspect she would try to help me at all. I assumed that nature would take its course and I’d eventually die, which would stop the pain, so I welcomed that idea. She had other plans, though.
It doesn’t really matter, but she explained to me that I was sick and that I was safe there, that no one would hurt me. She brought me food and water when she could get me to eat or drink it. She didn’t exactly stay by my side, but somehow it seemed like she had my best interests in mind. Obviously, this is a fever dream inspired by an actual nurse, most likely, but it was quite a profound realization in my addled state that I wanted to die, that I was tired, that I’d finally realized I’d gone too far and wouldn’t get better and that this was simply the end.
The blackness takes over again for a while from there. I’d gone to a hospital locally, expecting to die there. No one other than my roommate even had a clue how bad I was, and she didn’t know how to contact my family or anything like that, so I thought I’d just slip away quietly and everyone would move on with life. I really should’ve known better, or at least planned better. Another thing nobody tells you about dying is that people who love you will not let you die if they have any possible fucking way to keep you from doing it.
I woke up in mid-October. I was so sick. As I regained consciousness, I became aware that they were giving me different medicines, medicines I hadn’t heard of and I was too out of it to even ask what it was, what it was for, or even really talk or notice who was there. I noticed that I’d lost a lot of weight. My abdomen was distended but my arms and legs were much thinner, and I felt constantly cold.
At first they didn’t ask me questions, they didn’t do anything but administer meds and watch me closely with a sad look to them as if to say what a shame, such a waste. They made me drink lactulose, which is torture in itself. Ammonia builds up during liver failure, and lactulose helps get rid of it. I’m not going to explain how it works, because I don’t even like to think about it. Google it if you want the nightmares. I was too far gone to protest anything they did. At one point they had to set up a line directly into an artery for some reason, which I’m told is usually quite painful. I didn’t move, I couldn’t feel it, I couldn’t really feel anything past the general sensation of just PAIN EVERYWHERE.
Eventually, I regained some lucidity. They asked me where I was and I replied that I was obviously in a hospital. They asked which one, and I realized I had no idea. Then I realized my mom was there, and it looked like she’d been crying. I remember wondering how she got there, but I didn’t think to ask. Apparently, I was quite close to death while I was at the first hospital. Somehow my roommate got in touch with my mom, and she came to the rescue. After she found out what happened, she had me transferred to Oschner in New Orleans, which is a major transplant facility. When I arrived, doctors made no promises, but encouraged her to call the family together and to say what they needed to say while they still could.
When in liver failure, doctors assign a MELD (model for end-stage liver disease) score to their patients. It’s used to come up with your prognosis based on lab values. It ranges six to forty and the higher it is, the higher your chance of dying within three months. My score was thirty-five. Basically already dead.
I knew people were sad, but it was still hard to hold on to reality. I could tell I was hallucinating, that I was seeing things that weren’t actually there. It’s hard to explain, but I’ve always been able to tell if something is a hallucination versus reality, so this didn’t scare me much and I was able to make some general sense of the situation. A doctor came in and explained what happened. They’d been working on clearing the toxins out of my body enough to stabilize me and get me well enough for surgery. Surgery? Yeah, major surgery. I asked what they meant, and they said that I needed an immediate liver transplant to live.
As best they could, they got consent from me. Consent for the surgery and for substance abuse counseling afterward, as well as assurance that I would remain compliant with medications and follow-up visits and labs and all that other great stuff. I thought okay, well, maybe I get another shot. Maybe it isn’t really time. I’ll spend a couple weeks getting better and go back to normal life.
On a side note, no one tells you that if you don’t have money and you need a transplant, you’re simply going to die. I was told very bluntly that if my insurance refused to cover it for any reason, they would not proceed with the transplant. Luckily, I have amazing insurance and I work for an incredible company which paid for my insurance the entire year I was out of work.
At one point, the nurses and doctors came in excited. There was a liver, they said. It was for me, they’d found one that matched and it was time. Not long after, they came back, this time not excited. The liver was no good, they said. They’d thought it was, but when the surgeon examined it, the vessels were hardened, they couldn’t be sewn to mine. It was a bust.
A few hours later, though, a miracle (at least according to my mom, I think it was just coincidence) happened. They had another liver, another one that matched me, another one without hardened vessels, one that was perfect for transplant. And everything went dark again.
The next time I woke up, there were over a hundred staples in my stomach. The scar reaches from just under my rib cage on the left front side to halfway around my abdomen on the right side in a chevron shape. It’s truly massive, I was cut in half. I wasn’t prepared to see that, and I started to immediately regret my decision to go forward with the transplant. Then the pain hit me like a truck. The next few days are a constant cycle of drugs, sleep, pain, drugs, sleep, pain, drugs, sleep, pain. When I cleared up a little after they stopped IV pain meds, they fed me more Oxycontin like it was Skittles. My mind was slowly clearing, and there was talk of how to care for the wound, what recovery would be like, what meds I needed to take, and all kinds of other information. I had the sinking feeling that it wouldn’t be so easy. My legs had atrophied and I couldn’t stand, walk, sit upright, or really get comfortable in any way.
To this day I cannot sleep on my side or stomach. It just hurts too much. I received my transplant October 19th, 2017.
The recovery was the most grueling, horrible, unimaginable thing to ever happen in my life. At first the pain was overwhelming, but it was brought under control with powerful opiates. I struggled to move. When I stood, the tendons in the back of my knees had tightened and it was impossible to keep my balance at first. I went most places in a wheelchair. I thought this would pass quickly, but it didn’t. I was in that chair for what seems like most of a year.
The wound began to heal, but things were messy. Another side effect of liver failure, and of surgery, is the draining. Something to do with albumin and cells not keeping liquid inside them like they should and it needs to find some way out. Everywhere on me leaked. I had places in my skin that spontaneously developed what, for lack of a better explanation, seemed like a sourceless but continuous leak. It was like liquid (not sweat, but steadily dripping) was coming out of my pores. It came out of the wound, it came out of other places where I had stitches for other reasons, it wouldn’t stop.
Then the complications began. Most people who have a transplant take Prograf, or tacrolimus, which is an anti-rejection drug. They started me on it a while after the surgery as maintenance for the transplant, as per protocol. Little did they know, it caused severe neurological side effects in me. One day I was sitting with my mom and a nurse, and I was pretty lucid. Still on a lot of drugs, but now I was telling people my correct name at least, and knew how old I was and what year it was again. Somehow, I knew I was going to have a seizure. I could feel it, and if you’ve never had one then I just can’t explain how I knew. I tried to warn them. “I think I’m having a ssss-sss-ss-s-sssssss-ss-s…” and then everything goes black. As soon as the S sound escaped my lips I got stuck, kept stuttering the same consonant over and over, and then seized. What seemed like a brief nap later I came to again and they were staring at me wide-eyed. I asked what happened and they told me I had a seizure. Then I promptly had another one.
They put me on Kepra to stop the seizures and switched me to cyclosporine for anti-rejection. This caused me to essentially speak gibberish, nonsensical answers to questions, not knowing where I was or how to act appropriately to the situation. At one point I got so frustrated I started crying. I kept trying to tell them I had to go to the bathroom, all I needed was just some help getting up so I could hobble to the toilet to go pee. I kept trying and trying to tell them, I could hear what I wanted to say in my head, but it kept coming out wrong. I couldn’t make the correct words strung together to express what I needed. I cried until more nurses came and they figured out by process of elimination what I needed, and helped me to the bathroom. I was taken off the cyclosporine.
Then it was a lot of steroids to keep me from rejecting the liver. During this time, the wound began to heal wrong. It healed from the outside in, instead of inside out. So they took out all of the staples. All. One. Hundred. Seventeen. Staples. They packed the wound with foam padding, applied a wound vac, and I spent months healing slowly as scar tissue filled in the hole. As if this weren’t bad enough, my kidneys weren’t functioning, I got massive infections, and I vomited constantly every time I ate or drank. This didn’t phase the doctors much, though.
Dialysis for the better part of a year, with a perma-cath installed in my chest. Countless rounds of antibiotics to control infections. Anti-emetics didn’t work, tube feeding didn’t work (I still vomited up what they put down the tube). They installed a central line and fed me intravenously for several weeks. There were loads of painful tests, including the time they inserted a needle into my hip to sample bone marrow and the time they thought my knee was septic so they had to ram what looked like a drinking straw sized needle under my kneecap. There was the time they gave me a shot of something to make my blood counts normalize and it caused back spasms so bad that four doses of Fentanyl later I was still crying and they were administering yet another dose and kept Narcan on hand in my room just in case. Gradually, over the course of many months, I started slowly improving. It’s to be expected, they said. You almost died. It was really a miracle that you even lived long enough to get the transplant. You should, by all rights, be dead right now.
Time fades the memory, because you don’t want to remember it. Over the course of nine or so months, I was in the hospital more than I was out of it. My longest stretch in the hospital at once was just over three months. When I was finally getting close to getting out, there was a new, unexpected complication. I’d become physically dependent on the opiates they gave me for pain.
Don’t get me wrong, the pain was still intense enough to require opiates. But sometimes in life, you just have to get used to your new normal. Pain is part of life, now. Opiate withdrawal, though, is nothing to play with. That’s another thing no one really tells you or understands until they go through it. Withdrawal is itself incredibly painful. It’s like being lit on fire, and nothing you can do will make it stop except more opiates. What’s more, it’s not a quick process. Withdrawal can take weeks, if not months. That entire time you are in pain so bad that you can’t open your eyes, you can’t walk, you can’t eat, you can’t sleep.
A Godsend came in the form of a particularly cunty psychiatrist. She’s a real bitch, I don’t care for her, but she knew what she was doing. She immediately prescribed Suboxone, which worked like a charm. After weeks of withdrawal pain, it was gone. Just like that, a few minutes after I dissolved a little strip under my tongue, all the insidious, mind-crushing, all-encompassing pain melted away. I still hurt, but it wasn’t the kind of pain you can’t ignore. This I can deal with. Sure it hurts, but I can function with this pain. Before, I was a mess, I couldn’t even get up to walk.
At this point, I was on somewhere around fifteen medications a day. Anti-rejection, anti-emetic, diuretic, anti-depressant, thyroid pills, phosphate binders, pills to make my digestive system work, pills to make my kidneys try to wake back up, pills for everything imaginable. I’d actually feel full, like I’d eaten a meal, after I took my morning pills. And noon pills. And evening pills.
I went through rehab as mandated (an agreement is an agreement, and I said I’d do it if they did the transplant). I eventually learned to walk again first with a walker, then a cane, and now I walk unassisted albeit slowly. I’m down to taking one medication a day now. Sirolimus, an anti-rejection med which causes what feels like a cold that never goes away, constant low grade fever, a feeling of always being cold, and impairs your body’s ability to heal normally. I also consistently have extremely low blood counts (stemming from the kidney damage), low platelets, and some other things that are pretty annoying but not (well at least not always) life threatening. I get tired easily, am in some degree of pain at any given time, and I’m not too happy about this giant scar I have now.
I have over a year sober now, and I’ve had a lot of time to think deep thoughts and consider the past and future. I’m not sure if I’ll ever feel whole again. I don’t know if the pain will ever stop. If I had it to do over again, I’m not sure I’d agree to the transplant in the first place. I’d accepted dying, and that was easy. Accepting living as I have to live now is the hard part. My liver function is great, my kidneys are getting much better and I’m not on dialysis anymore, and sometimes I’m even hungry again. But what about next time? The average life expectancy for a male after liver transplant is eighteen years. That means I’ll likely die by the time I’m forty-six. And I don’t want to linger. I’m more tired than I care to admit, more sad than I’d like to be, more constrained by the nature of my condition than I can consent to.
I just went to Orlando by myself to see a friend (that same ex that I was talking about earlier, we have since been able to be friends and enjoy each other’s company again). The flight there made me sleep for a day, and getting back was just as bad. I work from home at a desk job, but I struggle to find the energy to talk on the phone. I miss the feeling that at any moment, something amazing could happen to me. That there could be a new adventure, a new boy, a new job, a new friend, a new hobby, new anything, just around the corner. Now it feels like I’m a slave to insurance and medication (my pills cost $1100 a month without insurance), and I don’t know how to move forward with self-confidence when I imagine taking my shirt off to a muffled gasp and “Oh my God, what happened to you?!”
I try to stay positive. I think to myself, as much as I’m an atheist and non-believer, that maybe something good can come out of this. And logically, I know that to be true. If nothing else, I serve as a wonderful cautionary tale at AA meetings. I still look pretty damn young, if I do say so myself. And when you see what looks like a twenty-three-year-old grimace slightly in pain as he lowers himself to a seat after taking the stairs carefully one at a time into an AA meeting, then announce “My name is Jamie, I’m an alcoholic, and I had a liver transplant a year ago”, then you hear his horror story, the details of pain, uncertainty, almost dying multiple times… well, you’d have to be a fucking idiot to keep trying to find happiness at the bottom of a bottle.
I guess that’s a good thing, at least. I never listened to the horror stories because they just weren’t scary. Oh, you hit your spouse? That’s not alcohol, you’re an ass, I’d never do that. You drink and drive? I never do that, ever, I call a cab, even blacked out. You lost your job? I never drink on the job. So you see, the stories weren’t quite enough for me. I had to chase the rabbit all the way down before I realized he wasn’t there and I was digging the hole myself.
At this point, I’m working to put my mind at ease, to find purpose in living a life with limitations. I’m trying to not be afraid that tomorrow I’ll get sick again, that I’ll be alone because I’m too ashamed of what happened to me. I know I can find an external purpose easily enough. I don’t mind lending support to people trying to better themselves and get away from alcohol or drugs. If anything, my resolve is now quite concrete. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol and I don’t think I will for the foreseeable future. Or, as they say, all I know is today I'm not drinking. But finding something that drives me to want to smile and be awake and adventurous in the world? That’s proving a bit difficult.
So far I’m still recovering on several levels. Physically, pain and exhaustion are a daily battle. Financially, I’m fairly well off all things considered. Emotionally I’m pretty drained, but that’s getting better. I’ve started taking pleasure in small things again. I didn’t think I’d ever be sitting stone cold sober in my kitchen carving pumpkins with my roommate and enjoy it. I didn’t think I’d ever enjoy anything stone cold sober again.
I wouldn’t say I’m depressed. I’m sad sometimes, but I know that’s normal. I’ve made some unpopular decisions, like making sure medical intervention to keep me alive in a similar situation will never happen again and deciding that I truly don’t want a romantic relationship again any time soon. At the same time, I wonder about a lot of things. Will my life be the same a year from now? Better or worse? Will finally dying hurt as bad as I think it will? What kind of gigantic beast of a tattoo would I have to get to cover up the scar I have?
I guess I’ll end by saying this. If you or anyone you know has a problem with drugs or alcohol that is affecting their health, get help. Don't expect someone to step in and help, because no one will. YOU need to get help, regardless of how that makes you feel. Fuck the job, fuck the car, fuck the house, fuck the spouse, fuck appearances, fuck everything except your life and health. You won’t know how much it was really worth to you until you’ve irrevocably lost it.
So I'll start by explaining yesterday, which exemplifies why I often lose all faith in people, lol. Liz's ex, Pete, came to stay with us for a couple days. The reason for this is that their mutual friend is the Romanian guy, Adrian, who once hit on me while he was incredibly inebriated in that thick accent of his, proclaiming "Motherf**ker! My parents hate me! I want to f**k you!" Most awkwardly hilarious thing that's ever happened with a guy, just sayin'.
Adrian jumped in front of an eighteen-wheeler recently. Being that they're two of the people that knew him the best and cared about him the most (at least supposedly on Pete's part), it would be natural that Liz would want him around while she's trying to make some sort of peace with the fact that he's gone, forever.
Pete is the ex that broke Liz's windshield and her ribs. This happened a good while back, but it still made me want to hate him immediately. However, Liz asked me to be nice and not kill him and stuff him down the garbage disposal piece by tiny piece, so I decided that I wouldn't. I did, however, consume copious amounts of alcohol because it is the most incredible social lubricant in the world, and makes even people I loathe almost tolerable.
So, whilst we consumed a case of beer (which was sort of disappointing considering as how I couldn't seem to drink fast enough while he talked, lol), he spewed on and on about how much he was still in love with Liz, and wished so bad that he hadn't f**ked it all up, and that he regrets it every day and is certain he'll never feel the same way about anyone else. He even wrote her this long letter that he left for her; he read it to me, and it was all I could do to refrain from running over and deleting it and rewriting it, because Pete is an awful writer. Seriously, how can the sky cry pollinated tears? Pollinated? Did you mean polluted? Because I think perhaps you're so polluted that you got the words mixed up, jackass.
Anyway, so at the time I just really felt sorry for him, because he'd been trying so hard to be really nice to me, and I started to think that maybe he wasn't such a horrid human being after all, so I started being genuinely nice back. Then he starts talking about wanting to kill himself. I spent a couple hours playing therapist, pointing out reasons he should be alive, and pointing out things about he and Liz that he's not perceptive enough to catch. I remained mostly neutral on the issue of he and Liz getting back together, because I was still wary of that. Seriously, who wouldn't be knowing that he smashed her car AND her? Well, after playing therapist, I was a little buzzed and very tired from not sleeping much the night before, so I went to take a nap.
I wake up at about ten that night to Pete, Shannon, Jillian, Dustin, and Nick coming in my door. My initial reaction is one of being invaded; this is my HOME, just who the hell said all of you could barge in here, especially while I'm trying to get some decent sleep? That went away, but then Shannon said something about my job hunting and my reaction was that she was being demeaning about my failure to be gainfully employed yet. Then, I realized she isn't either, and I felt better because it means that it's the pot calling the kettle black. Dustin told me I "look a lot bigger than when I saw you last". Thanks for noticing that I gained back fifteen to twenty pounds, you insensitive bastard. Now I won't eat for two weeks. I then check my text messages and realize that the reason they all showed up is that Pete supposedly tried some method of committing suicide and they all came up here to get him and take him back to H-burg, thankfully. Liz finally gets back, and looks at me weird, then looks at Pete, and then back at me. She wouldn't tell me what she was looking so weirded out about, that is, until they finally all had the courtesy to vacate my f**king house with the crazy bastard in tow.
Liz then informed me that Pete told her a lot of things she thought were very, very fishy. He said that we had been talking about her, suicide, and various shit; true. He then said that I told him he should just go ahead and kill himself; what the f**k?! He also stated that I revealed to him that I didn't intend to ever get a job, pay rent, and intended to mooch off of Liz indefinitely. Okay, what the hell, because Liz has already tried to tell me I don't have to help her with rent and bills but I refuse not to since I'm living here indefinitely with her, even if she did pick this place because it's maintainable if/when I leave. I am seething mad, because it's a great example of what people tend to do to me constantly for whatever reason. They act sweet, caring, and friendly to my face, then mercilessly rip me apart behind my back. Then they show up and pretend to be my friend.
If he ever shows up to my house again, I'm calling the cops and telling them he came after me and I had to stab him to keep him off me. Lie for a lie, bitch, and you DO NOT mess with the best friend I've ever had in my life.
Today was productive. I woke up, and cleaned the entire apartment top to bottom because Liz had been talking about cleaning (even though not much was really dirty). Today she didn't have to go in until four, and she's been working like fifteen hour days. Thus, I figured that if I cleaned everything incredibly thoroughly, like so much so that anything conceivable would only be re-cleaning, then she wouldn't be able to waste her half a day off working her ass off for no good reason, and she would relax. I was semi-right. She got up and was productive, but she did things for herself specifically, like clean her car and wash some of her clothes (which I also would've done if I'd had quarters, lol).
After that, I set out job hunting hardcore. I've applied at several places, and lots in the mall. I'm almost certain I have a job at a cookie store; the lady liked my shiny happy demeanor, and said the only thing is that I'd have to not have my eyebrow ring in while working since it's a kid-friendly place and we live in MS. The Underground seemed interested since I told the guy I really can work however much they want, whenever they want. A lady at the pizza place was so sweet to me. She said she wasn't hiring for a while, that she was sorry, but that I should check with customer service because there was a list of places hiring and the positions they need. I was thrilled at this, and got to go through a big notebook of possible job opportunities after I thanked this woman profusely and hopped over to the customer service desk.
Now, I am scheming. Bigtime. I looked at two jobs in specific that I would KILL for, but I don't exactly meet what they want as far as experience goes. The one I really, really want is at Sleep Number, the place that sells beds, as a sales rep. They say that I should have a year or two of sales experience with big ticket (over 100 bucks) items, and any other qualifications would be a serious plus, like managerial or retail experience. To apply, all I need do is e-mail a copy of my resume to the owner. Tomorrow I will be calling in favors from all of the business owners/managers/professionals I know. I am certain that a few at least would help me bend the truth a little to make it sound more tailored to what Sleep Number is looking for in a sales rep. The others will at least be very convincing references; who doesn't find doctors or lawyers or managers of theatres or business owners a bit convincing? My first boss would gladly make it sound like I was at least a shift manager and handled a lot of responsibility, even if only in foodservice. Liz, who manages a restaurant, would gladly tell them what a hard worker I am (which is true). My mother I'm sure I could convince to make it sound like I handled customers for insurance, which I think counts as a big ticket item; I couldn't convince them I was ever an agent and it would be stupid to try, but I could make it sound like I was the person who pre-handled them, helping them decide what kind of insurance exactly they needed and was best for their situation. My friend Robin could vouch for some managerial experience since we ran a successful and popular website together, and make it sound like we gave tips on and assisted people on a personal level with bettering their writing skills. I might could talk my friend Bennie, who manages a FedEx, to help me out in some way, at least be a character reference. Long story short, NO, I'm NOT actually qualified in the way they want me to be, but damn it, I WOULD SELL BEDS, lol. That's really not that hard, especially when a big part of my clientele will likely be middle-aged to older women draggin' in their hubbies; women, especially lil old ladies, tend to really like me. I was also a psych major, so I have a good deal of experience and education dealing with people and figuring them out on a personal level, which I think is a huge plus for a sales position. I really want this job; it comes with health/dental/life insurance, a 401k plan, discounted merchandise (hey, my family and friends might need a bed sometime), and salary PLUS commissions. I really will do whatever it takes to fudge up a passable resume and do my damndest to charm the hell out of whoever interviews me.
Another job along the same lines is an assistant manager position at Buckle. They want someone with managerial experience, which is where Debbie would really come in handy, because she would totally claim me as a shift manager or something like that. It's also the type of job where it's not a cold throw-in thing; I'd work with the full manager, learn what they expect, help direct and maximize sales, and all that jazz. It also comes with benefits, and I do like the sound of a 40% discount on all merchandise. Yeah I know, right, it's like friggin' half off, lol. My only real worry with this job is that I'm not skinny, pretty, and fashionable enough. I would so work my ass off for it, though, lol.
I'm convinced that if I play this just right, and get the right people to back me up, I can pull it off. I know that with the sales rep job, I could learn very quickly and do well enough that they wouldn't fire me immediately at least. The assistant manager position at Buckle is trickier, but the way they worded what they were looking for and job expectations, I'm sure that I could learn fast enough to look like I'm just adjusting to working as an assistant manager in retail as opposed to foodservice, especially if the full manager is going to be helping me learn what they expect my responsibilities to be specifically.
I need this break so bad. I would be okay working at the cookie place, and if these two don't go through at all, then it'll be okay. But guys, I would feel so much better about life knowing I had a truly decent job as opposed to a really low-level foodservice job. I would have insurance, and not have to worry about the next time I get bronchitis or when I go get my meds having to cough up 110 bucks. With a 401k, I would feel more secure. With salary, I would know I would make money, and with commissions, I'd be constantly motivated to do my best at my job and sell every mofo that walks in a bed. I could pay rent, pay off my credit card, pay off my computer, all that. I could actually get my mom something decent the next time her birthday or Mother's Day rolls around instead of calling and being like "I love you, but I'm a destitute dropout failure who can't afford to even get you Wal-Mart jewelry". And the really big one... I could get a car.
Wish me luck, please, and if you have ANY ideas or advice, PLEASE don't hesitate to tell me. I could use all the help I can get with this, and I'd be forever grateful regardless of outcome.
I was reading this silly book of quotes, but I picked out some that I actually kinda like. Feel free to stop reading here, because from here on I'm just listing the quotes, and I know this was a crazy long entry already.
People don't just go to work to acquire, they go to work to become. -Dan Zadra
Who never doubted, never half believed. Where doubt is, there truth is. It is her shadow. -Ambrose Bierce
Give me a place to stand, and I will move the earth. -Archimedes
When written in Chinese, the word crisis is composed of two characters. One represents danger and the other represents opportunity. -John F. Kennedy
I do not know the secret of success, but the key to failure is to try to please everyone. -Bill Cosby
Knowing others is wisdom; knowing yourself is enlightenment; mastering others is strength; mastering yourself is true power. -Lao-Tzu
The entire sum of existence is the magic of being needed by just one person. -Vi Putnam
One friend in a lifetime is much; two are many; three are hardly possible. -Henry Brooks Adams
When you were born you cried and the world rejoiced. Live your life in such a manner that when you die the world cries and you rejoice. -Ancient saying from India
Leadership is the art of getting someone else to do something you want done because he wants to do it. -Dwight D. Eisenhower
We have not inherited the earth from our fathers, we are borrowing it from our children. -Native American proverb (it reminded me of Liz, hehe)
Man cannot remake himself without suffering, for he is both the marble and the sculptor. -Alexis Carrel
If a man is called to be a streetsweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of Heaven and Earth will pause to say, here lived a great streetsweeper who did his job well. -Martin Luther King, Jr.
We can do no great things; only small things with great love. -Mother Theresa
No trumpets sound when the important decisions of our life are made. Destiny is made known silently. -Agnus De Mille
When you do right, people will look at you and say 'atta boy. When you do wrong, people will look at you and say ah shit. Always remember it takes at least three 'atta boys to make up for one ah shit. -Only good piece of advice my sperm-donor ever gave me
Might as well just let the wind blow. -My Pepaw's words to my mother while my dad ranted about something stupid
I've only once really thought about it so much as I have now. That was a long time ago, though. Now, I'm not sure what's going on in my head. Nothing's the way it should be, and everyone except Liz hates me or thinks I'm this pathetic druggie loser. I'm tired of it, ya know? It's just not right. No one really cares except a few, select people.
Normally, when you hear people considering what I'm considering talk, they latch on to those "few, select people". It's like the opinion of one or two or maybe even three people can change the world, make everything okay again. That's just not the way it really is, that's a romanticized version of the truth. The truth is that I focus more on the tons of people who hate me, who think I'm a pathetic excuse for a person, who wish I were gone...
And I think it'd be better to just be gone. I keep running, but my running never lets me run far enough. Maybe I could fix it. Maybe I could just go swimming tonight, and while I'm swimming, take a nice dive. Maybe breathe in deep while I'm under water. I don't know, really, but wouldn't it be better to just not exist as compared to existing and always thinking everyone hates me? The only people that really care about me are Liz and my mom. Two people out of this vast, wide world we inhabit. That's all. That means....
Only two out of billions actually want me here. What the hell? I'm so sick of waking up. Every time I do, I wake up to the fact that I'm a failure at everything I set out to do. When you REALLY take that into account, and stop trying to cover with the politically or socially correct bullshit excuses that life is sacred, what the hell is the point of waking up again?
When the only thing I look forward to is being unconscious, why should I ever be conscious again? It's so stupid, y'know? It's such a waste. Someone else would appreciate what I have more, someone else could use it more, and someone else probably needs it, and all I'm doing is wasting it. Don't I have not just a compulsion, but a RESPONSIBILITY to end it? Isn't it something that I don't just want, but have an obligation to do, for the greater good of everyone around me? They'd be better off without me, and I KNOW that's the truth, so don't even say anything to the contrary.
It's all so silly and useless. I want to just stop, just end it, just quit being. There's no reason to keep going. No job, no education, no friends, no family, no amusement, no satisfaction. I'd dare anyone to give me just one good reason to keep breathing, because I know, in my heart of hearts, that they can't. It's so dumb... so stupid.... such a waste. I fail at everything I do or even try to do. I even fail at committing suicide because as many times as I've tried, it's never worked. What kind of pathetic bastard can't even succeed at ceasing respiration? It's just sad.
If I manage to make it to the pool tonight, I'll be happy. You know, I might just walk out of here and start hitchhiking. Maybe I'd eventually end up someplace where I didn't hate myself and everything around me. Even if I didn't, maybe someone would offer to help me avoid having to deal with it again. Ya never know.
So, today, I've decided it's probably a really good idea to completely f**king redo myself. From the ground up. I need drastic change. Soooo.... what shall I talk about....
My misadventures with manhunt.net. Omg. This site is the bomb for ego boosting, however, BE CAREFUL. What do gays and women have in common? They lie about their weight. Just sayin'. Also, they tend to not be very interesting. Even so, zomgz, I've met so many nifty people. My friend Matt that runs the Saengar theatre in Hattiesburg? Met him on manhunt. Actually sorta played therapist to him for a bit before he and his man broke up and he's been doing great ever since. Worried I might've spurred on a manic phase in a bipolar person, but I dunno that he's actually bipolar, maybe he's just elated at the freedom since they'd been together for five years.
Anywho, I'm random... I know this... but I feel the need for a change coming on. Something new, interesting, entertaining. Actually, I believe what I will do from now on is work and write. Lol, yes, I might be insane. I may have thrown away a golden opportunity... 'cause I'm totally withdrawing from USM for at least a year.... but f**k it. I want to feel alive again.
I wanna go to work at Steak Escape and draw a paycheck, preferably with some overtime hours. Also, I want to finish one of the novels I've been working on for ages. I want to relax. I want to re-dye my hair. I want to go to the gym here religiously. I want to weigh 125 pounds. I want to throw away most of my clothes and start collecting a new wardrobe, because mine is abysmal.
Also, so this is gonna sound weird, but... does anybody know anything about escort services? I figure there should be a market for me to be an escort... for male or female, I can handle getting paid to be conversation and arm candy... ~shrug~ Perhaps I'm just really, really odd, but I think it'd be fun.
Okay, so now I am totally at a loss as to how to end this blog. I guess.... well, my apartment is almost completely put together. It's becoming quite pretty!! I'm very fond of it, and I like how it's slowly but surely becoming a home-like place. Liz and I are thinking we'll invite people over for Thanksgiving when that rolls around. We're both still on edge from school and the random crazy shit that's happened lately... such as one of our friends committing suicide by jumping in front of an eighteen-wheeler. Things like that take a bit of recovery time, but I really think that this'll be great for both of us. Everything should be okay. I really hope so, because I am so afraid I'm gonna fail at even existing.
I'm so close to freedom. It's gonna be great.
A lot has changed. I realize full well that I have borderline personality disorder, but there has been another drastic identity change.
My mother and I had a talk after my last nice big nervous breakdown involving drugs, alcohol, bad grades, failed relationships, and general ennui regarding life, and she told me that I try to hard to make everyone else happy. Thus, I decided that I'm allowed to do whatever I want to do and that there is no impending doom that will happen if I fail or mess something up or don't make someone happy. Btw, yes, that is a very real thing when people with anxiety disorders tell you about it... you constantly feel as if there's something about to absolutely destroy/ruin/f**k up/torture/maim/break.... it's a sense of impending DOOM that is there all the time.
I'm withdrawing from school. I'm moving to Jackson for at least the summer. I'm going to work and sleep and be happy.
Then I'm going to write, like I've always wanted to do, like I've always put off because everyone told me I'd never make any money with it or get anything out of it. Even the nice people were like "Well you could always major in English and do technical writing..." NO! That's not what I want!
I realize that life is a balance between what you want and need, but goddamnit, if I'm considering jumping off buildings because I can never do what I want because I'm always worried about making everyone happy and proud of me and doing what I'm "supposed" to do... then what the f**k, pray tell, is the point? I'm sick of trying to please everyone.
My whole life seems to have been planned out for me. Every time there's a deviation from the plan, I feel like I've failed everyone and f**ked up everything. It took FOREVER to be okay with being gay because that was a huge screwup with the plan. I was supposed to be a straight, married, 2 children-having, God-fearing, sane, successful architect.
I AM a gay, single, childless, atheist, insane, unsuccessful dropout.
I ACCEPT THIS! No one else can! BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? They aren't me, and the only thing that matters at the end of it all is whether or not I did what I wanted to in life. I don't want to end up like everyone else I see around me; middle-aged or older, completely miserable, but still drudging through life and trying to convince themselves that they did the right thing while the regrets they have gnaw at their sanity.
Apparently a major part of the therapy for borderline people is radical acceptance, meaning TRUE acceptance. Not the acceptance as a path to change. Acceptance as accepting what you are, who you are, where you are, how you are, how your world is, everything. TRULY making yourself KNOW that it's okay to just BE.
Another major part is the movement toward synthesis. Think of an equilateral triangle with the third point at the top in the middle. The top point is synthesis. The bottom left is thesis, bottom right antithesis. The idea is that thesis and antithesis are opposing modalities, goals, paths, identities, whatever. It's a CHOICE, a decision. Borderline people get stuck between thesis and antithesis, always going from one extreme to the other in search of their definitive, validating choice. The idea is to break this cycle through radical acceptance and reach synthesis, or the merging of the thesis and antithesis to relieve cognitive dissonance.
It's all okay.
So last night was a big eye-opener for me. I really do love Kevin, he's amazing as hell. Makes me crazy happy, and he's so damn sweet to me. Even when he kind of annoys me, it's so easy to just put up with it because all I have to do is think about how happy he makes me at other times, and the little annoying things just don't bug me so much. I'll be living with my best friend over the summer. I'll miss living with Kevin, 'cause that's what I've been doing for all practical purposes, but I'm looking forward to living with Liz. Another one of my best friends ever is thinking about living with us and will at least be visiting. It would be absolutely amazing to live with my two best friends in the entire world. I really can't fathom how I could be more happy and comfortable and just... right. At this point in my life, this mix of relationships is the perfect thing for me, and I think that it will really do wonders for me.
First, there's Liz. She's amazing. She's the most dependable, trustworthy, hard-working, reliable, loyal, sweet, adorable person I've ever met. I would not hesitate to put my life into her hands. Last night we were sitting outside smoking and drinking a beer whilst Kevvers was inside sleeping, and it was just so right, and when I told her that I really do trust her that much, her words were "You better! I'd kill for you, bitch!" She makes me extraordinarily happy, and she always has my best interest in mind. I know she'll do her best to take care of me, and I'll do my best to take care of her, and that just makes me warm and fuzzy to an extreme.
Next, there's Todd. I've known him since I was fifteen. I love him like a brother and best friend, even though I'd totally have married him if he'd have gone for it back when I had a crush on him (WAY back in the day, lol). He's been one of the few constant supporting figures in my life, and I feel like I can trust him with my deepest secrets because I know he'll never judge me for it and he'll always tell me the absolute truth of what he thinks, no holds barred. It's his honesty, integrity, and loyalty that make him so wonderful. I'm so thankful that I've had him to talk to during the times in my life when everyone else is distant, when my friends have become acquaintances or even enemies.
Then there's Kevin. My first boyfriend that's actually made it through more than a few days of my crazy, and made me feel like he honestly and truly cares about me. I've always been pretty sure that I cared deeply about the other person, but he's managed to convince me that he really cares about me, which is a first.
These people are just incredible. If I had them all around me, interacted with all of them intimately and in close proximity on a daily basis, I really dunno how I could be happier. They're my favorite people in the world. They make me feel special, which isn't easy. I want so badly to make them happy, to care for them, to be supportive... to just be a good friend to them.
Now, through this bout of euphoria, the villainy of the f**ked up world we live in did briefly rear its ugly head. I can't really wrap my head around this... because truthfully it ties into the really deep-seated fear and lack of understanding I have for pedophilia... but anyways. Someone very important told me about his first time. He seems to be very well-adjusted with it and not at all unhappy about it, and in fact he told me he enjoyed it and doesn't feel bad about it at all, so don't freak or anything as far as his mental state 'cause I think he's okay. Anyway, it was on his tenth birthday, and with his older brother who was sixteen or seventeen at the time.
I just have trouble understanding exactly how he could be okay with that, and not feel guilty or betrayed. It... freaks me out... lots. I mean, that whole natural curiosity and obsession with understanding people and why they do what they do is questioning how he feels about it, why he feels that way, why his brother did it, what his brother was really motivated by, etc. Also, if it makes any difference, they're not related by blood, he's adopted.
Anyways, that's just been weighing on my mind a bit, and I've been trying to analyze it and understand the mechanics of what was going on a bit better and really understand how he feels about it in particular. Enough of that now... 'cause that's such a heavy topic for a day when I'm in a really great mood.
My friend Marti has a performance she wanted me to go to at 7:30 tonight, and I'm washin' clothes at the moment. After that, I'm going to SLEEP. I'm exhausted, didn't get much sleep last night and three exams have taken their toll. More good news is that I'm down to 131.8!! Only 6.8 pounds from goal weight! YAY! I've decided that when I can see my abs, which I'm absolutely certain will be at 125, I'll start changing my diet to a high protein one with a decent amount of complex carbs, and low fat, then start putting weight back on slowly as muscle by going to the gym. I'm way too much of a wimp. Kevin only weighs 112 pounds, and I picked him up while he was asleep to carry him to bed last night, and seriously struggled with doing that without jerking him around and waking him up. I needs upper body strength especially, lol, my arms are scrawny.
Anywho, I'm gonna put clothes in the dryer before I fall the hell asleep. I'm gonna sleep sooooooo good tonight, it's gonna be amazing. Take care, have fun, seezya!
So I'm wasting time right now until Kevin decides to wake up. I've been basically living at his apartment, going home to shower/shave/change/grab stuff and then I pretty much come right back, and I go to class. I gotta say it's sort of funny how now that I've backed away from my social circles, everyone's paying a lot of attention to me. It's so ironic that when I actually wanted attention, I could never get anyone to give me the time of day, and now that I have Kevin, everybody wants me to play with them all the time.
Kevin and I are officially dating, as in boyfriend status. He's a sweetheart, and I really can't believe I'm spending so much time around him without wanting to kill him. Most people really bother me after a while, but I've yet to come across anything that really annoys me with him. The most aggravating thing is having to actually pay attention when he talks about some random paranormal/spiritual type shit and I blatantly don't believe in any of it... but even that doesn't really get on my nerves too much because he usually is kind of cute about that, sorta like watching a little kid play pretend, y'know? Same way I feel about the few Christians I like, lol.
Trenden seems to be a bit upset at the sudden acquisition of Kevin, considering as how he seemed to be wanting to hit on me. Sorry, but that's totally all on him. I was nice to him, tried to spend time with him, and he very likely could've totally captured my attention way before Kevin even came along, but he didn't seem to want to make the effort to find alone time with me. It's sort of hard to get to know someone if you're constantly in a big group of people, much less get close to them at all. Anyway, I was hesitating about him anyway for a while because I wasn't sure how well we would jive together, so it's likely a very good thing that it happened the way it did.
So yeah, I'm quite fond of Kevin. He's just delightful. The guy is absolutely mouthwateringly sexy for starters, plus he's very affectionate, he's very sweet, and he catches a lot of things that people don't normally pay attention to. He just... he's very good about doing what he can to keep me in my comfort-zone and making me feel relaxed and calm. Good sense of humor and he's playful, too! I have pictures of him taking a bubble bath 'cause he was sore from us playing racketball. Stuff like that makes me smile, being all playful and silly and whatnot.
Hm, so really all I have to talk about is Kevin, and let's face it, no one really wants to hear that much about someone's boyfriend or girlfriend, ever. I've been just generally hanging around and going to class, my friend Liz got a ferret which she named Morris Freeman Malfoy McDougal, I lost a bit more weight so now I'm 135 even, and yeah... I'm quite happy. Okay I go bye bye now, but you guys take care and have fuuuun!
I've been seeing this guy, Kevin, for the past few days. Well, basically I met him about four days ago and have slept at his apartment (with my undies still on, might I add) each night since.
I went to the restaurant on campus by the library because my friend girl-Jamie (she's girl-Jamie and I'm boy-Jamie because we're name-mates) because she wanted Marti and I to go with her to meet people and get foodz. I got there and I saw Kevin, and I immediately thought "Jesus, he's adorable. Not even gonna try for that," and thought no more of it really. Oh, btw he's got blue eyes, dark mostly straight with a little wave hair, very nice lips/nose, and he's so... incredibly... tiny. He's an inch taller than me and weighs probably 115ish. GOD I love his hip bones so much. ANYWAY! Well we had dinner and then talked for a while (the big group of people, and I really didn't speak to Kevin until we walked outside), and when everyone left, Kevin commented that he had nothing to do.
Being the sort of people we are, Marti and I were like "COME PLAY WITH US THEN! " Marti, Jessica, Trenden, Kevin, and I went back to Marti's room and played around for a while. Basically we joked around, I hopped under the blankets and gave Marti air-head while she was like "OH JAMIE!" and yeah, she and Trenden messed with people who called their phones by answering as Sarah Palin or Jesus Hotline. Was priceless.
Anyway, eventually I was starting to wonder if Kevin was hitting on me. The way he was acting was sort of odd, and he was paying me a lot of attention. I finally figured that out for certain when he hopped in my lap and wrapped his legs around me. Lulz, I nearly flipped my lid, didn't know what the hell to do. Even then I still thought he had to be joking around or something.
Eventually midnight rolls around and we gotta vacate 'cause visiting hours are over. Jess and Trenden head toward the freshman dorms, and I was starting the trek toward my dorm when Kev was like "Wanna come hang out with me at my apartment?" At this point, I was like "Great, I'll have a nice random hookup and then a nice awkward, lukewarm dislike forever after."
Surprisingly, that's not what happened! Basically we sorta ended up cuddling up, watching TV, eventually going to his bedroom and he played piano for me ('cause I freakin' love piano) and then when it got late I was all ready to go home so he could sleep and get to class the next day. He was like "Well, you could just stay the night..."
C'mon now, who's going to say no to someone that incredibly hot/adorable with such a lonely pouty face? So I did. And then I went home and showered/shaved... and came back... then I went home and showered again and washed clothes, and came back... and then I went to classes, played racketball with Marti and girl-Jamie, showered, and came back... and I'll likely go back again today.
Also, he bites. Hard. ~twitch~ It's nice. We seem to be on mostly the same wavelength on most things, especially important stuff, but he's a little kinky even for me from what I can tell, hahaha. Um, the other thing is I think he's insane, not dangerous insane, but definitely a good bit crazy. I think he may have some serious delusions going... which is actually sort of fun considering how much I enjoy figuring people out and he's waaaaaaaay different from the average puzzle.
Okay, so the other thing is that I've lost weight. Allow me to point out that when I joined up at GA, I'm not sure how much I weighed but it had to have been at least 180-185 if not more like 190-200 pounds. Now, a couple years later...
I now weigh exactly 135.8 pounds. That puts my BMI at about 21.9! I'm aiming for 19ish (so about 120), lol, which I realize would put me almost at the border between normal and underweight, but I want to be able to see my abs and all that jazz. It's gonna be great. And then I'll get my last two microdermals on my hips!!
Okay, I'm going to go waste a bit more time before I decide to go find food and then head over to the lab 'cause I work 12-3 today coding videos. See ya guys!
Oh, btw, Forgiven by Within Temptation. Listen to it.
I may have had a slight break with reality. So my dresser started talking to me. I'm gonna assume it was my dresser anyway, because I feel like it's less weird for an object to talk to me than for me to hear a voice coming from nowhere. I've never actually heard voices before, so it was interesting.
Last night I got put in handcuffs again, hahaha. Silly UPD caught me with booze and was all rawr. That was just a scare tactic of course because really all they did was give me a ticket and get me fired from my desk assistant job lulz.
I also made out with Jen last night! And Trenden! And Truett! You know I'm wondering if it wouldn't be easier to just say who I haven't made out with. Jen uses teeth, I like her. She bit my lip, teehee. Truett wouldn't quit hitting on me all night, and apologized for being a gigantic prick the first time I met him. It was incredibly surreal considering how for the first part of the night I was quiet and withdrawn just because he was present and I hated him, and was plotting how to get rid of him craftily. He also wouldn't quit grabbing my crotch, and quite frankly I'm so sick of people thinking they can do that sort of thing to me. You DON'T know me like that and I'm not a whore, so back the f**k up.
The irony? The whole time Truett was all rawr I couldn't quit laughing because all I wanted to do was go play with Trenden.
The double irony? Now I find Trenden extremely unattractive because he cried when the cops came. Pussy, grow up.
The triple irony? I WAS THE ONE IN HANDCUFFS NOT HIM HAHAHAHAHA.
So now I'm doubly unemployed, and have this fine to pay.
The reason I wonder if I'm a little psychotic maybe is because all of this is extraordinarily hilarious to me.
Toss in the whole family thing and ZOMGZ crazy stew!
You know, at this point, I welcome more trouble. It's become somehow very amusing. I think I'll go get piercings now. It'll make me feel better.
I'm a little bit annoyed. Generally things are going well. I'm employed (actually twice-employed) and in class and doing well. The only thing that's not going great is my weight because that's gone back up to the mid-140s instead of the mid 130s like it should be, but even that doesn't really bother me.
The thing that's pissing me the f**K off is the way my mother seems to want to treat me like I'm a child. Okay, yeah, I'm 19, blahblahblah, she's older and she knows better. Whatever. That excuse only holds for so long. It worked fine when I was 15. It did okay when I was 16 and 17. When I was 18 it got old. Now I'm saying f**K that, I'm a goddamned adult.
The big bone of contention betwixt the two of us right now is a car. My grandparents have decided that it's (FINALLY) time to step up to the plate and assist with my procuring a vehicle. There's a Honda Accord we're eyeing for six grand, mildly used. Well my mother is CONVINCED that it is complete and utter folly for me to purchase a vehicle. What the f**K is wrong with her brain?! I'm nineteen goddamn years old and have two jobs and no transportation! That's just plain idiotic!
It's not even like I need her help. My grandmother is the one behind the plan, not my mom. Her hubby, however, has made the comment that "Well if your mom doesn't want you to get a car then I'm not gonna go against her, just wouldn't be right" because he's old school like that. Frankly, I don't care, I'll get it regardless if it's in the shape I think it is and my great uncle will sell it to me on a financed basis, lol. Not like I have six grand to fork over right now, but I could get a serious drop in that bucket pretty quick if I need to.
My mom just doesn't seem to want to let me actually BE an adult. She's always been like this, but it's time to back the f**K off. She's not paying my bills (well aside from my cell phone bill but that's on her, I didn't make her and if need be I'll take that off her hands too), she's not paying for my education, she's not paying for me. It's MY money, MY life, MY everything so she really has no f**king say in whether or not I get this car. I don't want to make her angry with me, but I'm going to have a vehicle within the next month. It's high time that I got one, I'm sick of having to bum rides and feeling like I'm dancing halfway between being a kid and an adult.
Her stance is that I only have two months before that DUI is gone and I don't need expensive insurance, so I should wait. I'm gonna be making approximately 1000 a month before taxes, which granted isn't a lot, but it's enough. Let's add up, shall we? Computer bill is 100 a month, credit card needs to be paid off and there's a total of 400 on it right now, and those are my current expenses excluding the day-to-day things. I have 200 in the bank right now, and computer's paid for the month. I have a check coming on the 30th, and I'll also be drawing my desk assistant paycheck which should total up to about 250. I have a lil over 300 on my credit card that's usable. All told, by the end of the month my usable money should total up to about 1600 dollars. I'm pretty sure that I can handle this car, especially since I ALSO work in the mall now too. Let's add in another 250 near the end of the month from THAT paycheck.
I'm kickin' two grand now. I KNOW I can do this. Total income each month should be 1000 (approximately 250 every two weeks from each job, more if I happen to work extra hours which I don't foresee because I'm lazy), right? 1000- 100 for computer- 100 for credit card bill (I never pay less than 100 a month, 'cause that's just dumb if you use it and don't pay it off ASAP and I use mine for daily expenses)- 200 for car payment- 300 for initial insurance payment = 300 dollars left. COME THE f**K ON, I'm not even cutting it that close!!! That means I can pay off MORE of my computer at a time, or MORE of my car at a time. PLUS my grandma has already told me that she'd put 100 toward my car every month, so I mean really I'd only have to pay 100 but I want to pay 200 just to get it over with quicker. Even besides that... you realize I can sell plasma for 240 dollars a month if I had time to do it? Oh, and transportation, too. 'Course I probably won't do that unless I just needed or wanted extra money because that's a hassle with a tight schedule, but yeah.
My entire point with all that is simply that while I'm not making a f**kton of money, I am making enough to get this car and pay the insurance, especially since in about two months it'll go down to damn near half of what I'd pay now for the insurance. I'd be okay.
I'm convinced that this is one of those things to where she just doesn't want to admit that I'm completely independent, that I don't rely on her at every turn for everything, and that she has no influence other than giving her opinion on my decisions.
That said, I'm trying not to be mean to her because she has done a wonderful job of supporting me when I've needed it, and covering the really unexpected things that come up like the rare expensive doctor visit or what have you, ESPECIALLY last year before I had an income. I love her very much, but it's really time to back off and let me do what I need to do.
Also if one more person tells me "school comes first!" I'll punch them in their spoiled f**king mouth. They're not paying for everything themselves, so they can kiss my ass. Oh and my grades are probably better than theirs any f**king way.
DONE ranting. I'm exciiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiited for schooooooooooooool 'cause I'm haaaaaaaaaaappy! I'm so ready to get into the swing of things! I love psych classes and that's virtually all I have this semester. WOOHOOO. Okay I'm shuttin' up now 'cause I'ma go find caffeine and maybe something to do to waste an hour or two before I need to go to my next class. Bye.
Do you ever have one of those moments where you step back, look at your life, and realize that you really have shit to show for it?
I'm having one of those moments, big time.
-My grades have fallen. This semester was awful, worst yet. Two A's, a C, and an F.
-Good news is I'll be a research assistant next semester for Dr. Zeigler-Hill, who's actually interested in things that tie into my own interests. Assuming nothing insane happens, he should be a seriously useful resource for me, especially when it comes time to apply to grad school.
-I have like, negative five hundred dollars right now, lol. I'm so poor, I'm starting to wonder how the f**K I'm ever going to get anything accomplished. I need a rich relative, and I need them to kick the bucket, pronto. Speaking of which, this lucky bastard my roomie's dating just had a relative he'd only met once leave him a little over eighteen grand. Thanks, God, I appreciate you letting me see the people around me get lucky breaks and letting me keep wading through shit, you imaginary bastard.
-Christmas isn't happening this year. My present? A new phone after a year and a half of dealing with the piece of shit one. I bought myself a new one because the old one stopped charging. My mom's struggling to make ends meet more than ever, she's living in a trailer yet again, and to top it all off she's taking care of a kid who she can't even claim on her income tax and isn't getting any support from the people who SHOULD be taking care of the girl. She's got three hundred dollars to make Christmas happen, which is why I say that shit just ain't gonna happen this year. Oh, and my little sister? Bipolar as the day is long, and so f**king looneytunes I can't help but wanna beat the holy shit outta her almost every time I see her because her very existence means that my mom has to put up with more than anyone ever should, and dish out even more money that she doesn't have to take her to see a shrink who doesn't have a f**king clue what he's talking about and prescribes Strattera of all things. Mentally ill or not, I don't give a f**K. Grow the hell up a little and quit being such a f**king burden.
-Every time I think things might be getting better, they end up twice as bad as before. I'm sick of it.
-By the way, I hate my job. I really, really HATE my job.
-I have two that I enjoy being around. If not for Marti and Liz, I would just go off the deep end.
-I switched roommates at the beginning of the semester. This neurotic prick that I live with now is driving me batty. I swear before Bugs Bunny, I can't WAIT for an opportunity to f**K his world up. Allan is his name, and I've done more for him than I ever should've. He's gotta be one of the bitchiest, most unappreciative, annoying little cocksuckers I've ever had the misfortune to meet. I'm going to rub fiberglass insulation in his underwear before I leave for the break. Take that, bitch. I dare him to complain about the surgery he's having on his leg during the break. I WILL tell him exactly what I think; that he needs to shut the f**K up complaining about his goddamn leg all the time because HE is the one who crashed his f**king car into a wall, ON PURPOSE, because he couldn't quit being such a little queer pansy-assed bitch and stand up for himself. "Everything's so hard because my parents are religious and I'm gaaaaay, waaaaaah!!" SHUT THE f**K UP AND DEAL WITH IT, YOU STUPID c**t OF AN ASS-PIRATE!!
-Paul Gates can go f**K himself. Piece of shit.
-If I have one more encounter with a person who isn't worth the air they suck up, I really am going to beat the holy f**K out of them.
-My memaw is insane. 'Nuff said.
-My grandmother... take your religion and shove it in your c**t, I don't want anything to do with your imaginary friend. By the way, guess what? It IS your fault that your son is a drunken bastard. If my theory's correct, you get all the credit for that one. Thankfully, MY mother isn't anywhere NEAR your level of bitch. Go suck a dick.
-My older sister; GET A REAL MOTHERf**kING JOB, AND QUIT BEING A DUMB c**t!
-Little sister; quit being a crazy bitch, shut the f**K up, and be thankful your mother loves you because if I were her I'd have had you committed a long f**king time ago.
-My aunt; if you want to do drugs, use your own money to do it and quit failing so hard at life.
-Little siblings; you don't know how good you f**king have it. You might not have all the shit you want, but you don't live with an alcoholic, and you've never had to worry about half the shit I put up with when I was your age. Grow up.
So I'm a little bitter. You get that way after a while of putting up with dumbassery. I'm on vacation starting Friday. I'm gonna go home, and I'm going to do as much as possible around the house for my mom. On the 28th, I'm getting on a plane and getting the f**K out of here for a week. I'm going to relax, and spend time with someone who doesn't drive me up a f**king wall. When I get back, I'm focusing on myself. f**K everyone else. I'm not going to feel bad about neglecting anyone, about telling people no, about a goddamn thing. I'm gonna spend my time working and focusing on school, and start letting people know exactly what I think of them.
I'm done being nice, and I'm done going without or going out of my way for people who would never do the same for me.
Well, I feel better now. Now that I'm done ranting... I'm so excited about the break!!!!! It's gonna be so much fun, and I can't wait to go see my friend!!
Note: this blog requires no comments, really. No one likes hearing anyone else's ranting, and I'd really rather you spend the minute or two you'd take typing a comment doing something fun or fulfilling. I would also say that I'm sorry for neglecting GA, but I'm not. I was serious about not feeling bad about neglecting people/telling people no/refusing to sacrifice for people. Love you guys, and I heart GA, but I've been busy. Seezya.
I've been neglecting GA really badly. Makes me a little sad, but it's because I'm just so busy all the time with all of this insanity that is collegiate life. Really, though, I have an extremely important announcement to make.
I got my hips pierced. HAHAHAHA, YES! Microdermals!!! It's like a tiny plate thingy they slide under the skin after punching a hole with a needle. I want six total, three on each side, but I got these first to see how they'll end up looking and feeling so I know if I like them or not. Basically it just looks like a little disk is glued magically to my skin. It's so cuuuuuuuuuuute, I love them! I'll get you guys pictures soon, but I had to tell about this because it was just so awesome and I've been wanting hip surface piercings for so long and now I got microdermals!!!!
Yeah, I'm totally addicted to piercings, but I really love them and I think they're pretty. See you guys, gonna take a nap now.
I'm sick of this shit. I've managed to slip up and let myself regress back to my old self. I've slid back into that idiotic frame of mind where I let other people influence how happy I am, where I depend on other people. I need to get back to being self-sufficient, independent of any needs that require other people's cooperation. Today's gonna be the turnaround. I need to make up my lost ground and gain a little more.
First, I'm getting back to my diet/exercise. I'm not gonna let other people try and lull me into that complacency where I forget momentarily that I'm not at my best yet. All it ever ends up doing is frustrating me and making me feel bad about it later. I'm not listening to any of this idiocy about "Oh, if you lose any more weight you'll blow away!" or "You sound anorexic!" or any of that bullshit. I'm NOT anorexic, and I'm NOT what I want to be yet, so I WILL do what the hell I want and get the body I want. Kiss my ass. Just because everybody else is content being overweight and having no definition or musculature doesn't mean I have to be, too. I'm going to feel good about myself with every pound I lose. I'm going to force Allan to take me to buy a set of scales tomorrow, and I'm going to start keeping track of it.
Second, I'm not going to let this idiocy about boys f**K with my head. There's no reason I should let what anyone, let alone any guy who doesn't even know me, have any bearing on how I feel. They know NOTHING about me. Hell, my best friend right now knows next to nothing about me because we don't talk about anything other than day to day things. We have an unspoken understanding that we just DON'T bring up drama. We go for the cheap thrills, the happy things, good old shallow fun. Anyway, guys can go f**K themselves, because I don't need 'em. Half of them don't even know what they want, and I'm not going to attempt to impress anyone anymore other than myself. I'm just done.
Third, I'm pulling my grades up. They've been slipping, and it's unacceptable. There's no reason whatsoever that my grades should be this low. I'm gonna have to pull something off to fix them, but one's a definite A, one's a definite B, and the other two are totally up in the air. I'm not going to be doing this trying to keep up with friends bullshit anymore. They'll understand that I just don't have time to hang out during the week. I can't do it and I'm not going to kill myself trying. You realize I work night shifts? Some days I don't sleep for more than 36 hours at a time, constantly doing something. I'm not adding to that, not to mention the bad nights when I'm all insomniac like tonight and can't sleep. Yeah, today is class from nine in the morning to nine at night, and then I go to work at three in the morning.
Fourth, I'm just not letting all of this bullshit bother me anymore. I pay way too much attention to other people, and I pay way too much attention to the parts of my situation that I dislike. It's about time that I let these things slide past me, and learn not to dwell on all of it. I don't HAVE to be frustrated, no matter what happens to me. Frustration doesn't help, so why make myself crazy? Just doesn't make sense.
Now, I'm about to get the hell up out of this bed, and get cracking on making this day a great one. There's no reason it can't be amazing, and I intend to make it that way. Gonna go have me a smoke, then come back up and plan out what I need to be doing today. As soon as Allan's all the way awake, I'm going to play DDR until I need to shower/shave and go to class. After that, gonna come back here and clean the f**K out of this room, 'cause it really could use it. That's another thing I've noticed; the cleaner and more orderly my room is, the better I feel in general. So, off to start the day. Also, here's a couple songs for you guys. Look 'em up. First is "Still Hurting", from The Last Five Years. Second is Die Vampire Die! from [title of show].
"Jamie is over and Jamie is gone
Jamie's decided it's time to move on
Jamie's has new dreams he's building upon
And I'm still hurting
Jamie arrived at the end of the line
Jamie's convinced that the problems are mine
Jamie's probably feeling just fine
And I'm still hurting
What about lies, Jamie?
What about things that you swore to be true?
What about you, Jamie?
What about you?
Jamie's sure something wonderful died.
Jamie decides it's his right to decide.
Jamie's got secrets he doesn't confide.
And I'm still hurting.
Go and hide and run away, run away.
Run and find something better.
Go and ride the sun away, run away.
Like it's simple, like it's right.
Give me a day, Jamie.
Bring back the lies, hang them back on the wall.
Maybe I'd see how you could be so certain that we
Had no chance at all.
Jamie is over and where can I turn?
Covered with scars I did nothing to earn.
Maybe there's somewhere a lesson to learn.
But that wouldn't change the fact
That wouldn't speed the time
Once the foundation's cracked
And I'm still hurting."
There are some people in the world who say that writing stories,
or composing music or dancing sparkly dances is easy for them.
Nothing interferes with their ability to create.
While I celebrate their creative freedom,
a little part of me just wants to punch those motherf**kers in the teeth.
This song, I sing this song for you guys and for all the rest of us. Help me out y'all
We'll sing backup
You have a story to tell, a novel you keep in a drawer.
Old sock drawer!
You have a painting to paint, but you lazy like an old French whore
Je suis whore!
You have a movie to make, Shrinky Dinks you can bake
but you best grab a stake, cause,
in sweep the vampires, in creep the vampires, knee deep in vampires,
Filling you with doubt. Insecurity, 'bout what your heart should be
in sweep the vampires
You sketched that turtle you saw in an ad on late-night cable TV
But your fourth grade teacher said
You can't draw
Aww, those vampires just won't let you be
f**K you Ms. Johnson, Word!
And when they come run like hell, see those bats in your belfry, then call on Van Helsing.
Ooh, the vampires
in a whoosh
ooh, the vampires,
ooh, all the vampires
Filling you with thoughts of
They'll make you
There are so many vampires, inside, outside, and nationwide,
it helps to recognize them with this vampire hunting guide!
a vampire is any person or thought or feeling
that stands between you and your creative self expression,
but they can assume many seductive forms.
Here's a few of them!
Tell us Susan!
First up are your pigmy vampires.
They'll swarm around you head like gnats and say things like:
Your teeth need whitening
You went to state school?
You sound weird
Shakespeare, Sondheim, Sedaris
Did it before you and better than you, or they might say that you cannot
sing good enough to be in a musical, or they might say:
Ooh, your song's derivative,
Ooh, your song's derivative,
Ooh, your song's derivative,
To keep that song from you! Just tell them:
Die vampire, die!
Brothers and sisters, next up is the air freshener vampire,
she might look like you mama, or your old fat-ass, fat aunt Fanny.
She smells something unpleasant in what you're creating.
She'll urge you to:
It with some pine fresh smell 'em ups.
The air freshener vampire doesn't want you to write about
bad language, blood, or blow jobs
She wants you to clean it up and clean it out.
Which will leave your work toothless, gutless, and crotchless
but, you'll be left with two tight paragraphs,
All kittens that your grandma would be so proud of.
You look at that air freshener vampire in her fat ass, fat old f**kin' face and you say
Morte vampire morte!
The last vampire is the mother of all vampires and that is the vampire of despair.
It'll wake you up at 4am to say things like:
Who do you think you're kidding?
You look like a fool.
No matter how hard you try, you'll never be good enough
Why is it that if some dude walked up to me on the subway platform
and said these things, I'd think he was a mentally ill asshole,
but if the vampire inside my head says it,
It's the voice of reason.
You have a story to tell, pull your novel out of that sock drawer!
You have a painting to paint, you best paint it and then paint some more!
Oh baby, you must escape and grab it by the nape of its neck, by the trachea
f**kin' break it, go on drive a stake in,
Yeah there's no mistaking, now you're shake and bakin'
I said, "Die, vampire"
I said, "Now die vam-pi-re, die!"
In fly the vampires, oh my the vampires, then die the vampires,
filling you with life, creativity, all that your heart should be, out go the vampires
Die vampire, die vampire, die vampire, die!
All kinds of things are happening. It's so much fun, so much going on all at once, and it's just... it's how life SHOULD be. Slightly stressful, but not too much, and lots of good, with a steady stream of continual progress.
Well, I have a new roommate. Allan, my friend who hated his roomie, switched with my roomie so now we live together. Yeah, that's the Allan I made out with. No, I'm not going to make out with him again. It just isn't going to happen because of several factors, but he definitely isn't ready for that sort of thing anyway. He's still in the phobic stages. All I'm gonna do is make him get out and about and meet people and have fun, plus try to normalize being gay for him. I figure if he interacts with a gay guy on a close, daily basis then he'll like... get comfy by osmosis.
I got my new computer. It's a monstrosity. Thing is HUGE. It's a notebook, lol, but I'd call it a textbook. I f**king LOVE it. XPS M1730, 4 gigs of RAM, 2.4 ghz processor, all the bells and whistles. Cost a pretty penny, but I wanted it so bad, and I figure it's okay to buy myself something I really want every once in a while. I've decimated my bank account, but I still got about 500 bucks to work with until I get paid. Most of my money will be going to pay for this computer over the next year though. I want to get as much of it paid off as possible because I have no interest for the first 12 months.
I went on a date the other night with Nick. We went to eat at O'Charley's... I paid because I knew he'd originally wanted to go somewhere cheap and sixteen dollars for a meal isn't my definition of "cheap". Plus, I wanted to actually appear capable for once, lol. Well I think it went well. He makes me smile a lot, 'cause he's just adorable and he's so shy sometimes. He makes his own sound effects... kinda like I do. It's nice to have somebody else going "woosh, zoom, pow" when they do things like open a straw. At one point, he did one of those clumsy not-paying-attention bites and half a fry fell from his mouth when he bit it in half, at which point I had to say "I am SO glad that you did that first, 'cause usually it's me." <--- Totally the truth. Something about eating with new people, I always drop something on myself. Well, the whole date only lasted a bit over an hour because he had to go pick up a friend to get ready to go to a club or somethin', and I wanted to not let the conversation get awkward for him. When he dropped me off, I was like, twitching for my phone. He'd said "I'll text you later!" so I couldn't text him first. I totally was gonna lose self-control and do it anyway when I got a message like ten minutes later that read "I had a lot of fun, I dunno if I said that out loud or not". I like this one. Meaning I like him more than I usually like boys, because he appears to actually be a sweet guy, not arrogant, and intelligent. Rare mix.
One of my friends got a job as a shot girl at a bar/club in town. She made 110 bucks in tips the other night, lol. This is all fantastic and whatnot, but it makes me wonder about something. Y'know, I've been losing weight still... getting mighty close to having abs... if I could make that much money in one night, or even more, I'd have no qualms about getting into a speedo and being a shot boy at The Groove. I ain't even ashamed, I'll go get a wax and tan a bit, then work it like nobody's business. I'll be flirtin' with old men left and right.
So anyway, yeah, lots of stuff going on... I've been playing DDR like CRAZY, omg it's so much freakin' fun. Classes are okay, just not doing so hot in speech comunication because I haven't been paying ANY attention to it. I'll fix it though, I hope. I need some good grades, and I'm thinking I'll pull out mostly A's in my other classes. So, I shall talk to you guys later, take care, have fun!
First off, you should listen to the song Dancing by Elisa. It's absolutely f**king beautiful and it makes me want to cry and smile and giggle and sob all at the same time.
So, the reason this entry is entitled "Really? REALLY?!" is because it's just un-freakin'-believable sometimes, with the shit life tends to throw at me. It's not bad, but I'm so frustrated! You guys know me, I'm a worrier, which means I want to fix everything and everyone.
Two of my aunts are losin' their freakin' marbles. One's got a benzo/opiate addiction going, and from what I hear the other is just doing the benzos. Thing is that they have families and responsibilities. If one person crumbles, somebody has to pick up the slack.
My aunt's hubby was the legally named guardian in case of the death of the parent of this kid, Cheyenne. She's just a little girl, like eight maybe if that, I don't remember. Basically, my aunt is totally incapable of caring for anyone. The kid spent the night with my little sisters and when my aunt came by to grab her she just started freakin' out and crying and begging my mom to let her stay. Evidently my aunt's been being a stupid bitch and making the kid stay in her room all the time, which is a hell of a lot hotter than the rest of the trailer.
Needless to say, me and that aunt will be having a talk soon. It's okay if you wanna f**K up your own life, but you don't take a kid with you. I had enough of that shit when I was little and I don't wanna see it happening again. Basically my mom's talking about adopting the kid. My aunt's hubby works offshore, so there's nobody competent to take care of the kid while he's gone.
As usual, my mom gets stuck cleaning up the mess someone else made. I don't begrudge the kid a place to stay where people actually will love her and take care of her (which is what my mom ROCKS at), but I hate that people keep doing this to my mom. She always ends up taking care of all the messes, fixing everything that everyone else just walks away from. It's not fair, and she deserves better.
Next item of business. I got drunk as f**K in the fine arts building the other night with Allan while playing the piano. We drank a SHITLOAD of rum, and yeah... well, let me explain a bit. Allan hangs around my bestest friend Marti a lot. Marti's crushing on Allan. Allan was supposed to be all southern baptisty and like chicks.
The thing about all that which doesn't add up is that I made out with him that night. He was REALLY good for someone still holding onto their V-card, too.
I had the awkward situation of my best friend liking the guy I made out with, and the guy I made out with trying desperately to keep his orientation a secret. He's got the baptist boy syndrome. He haaaaates that part of himself, refuses to just be who he is and say f**K everybody else. He's attempted suicide three times, the latest attempt a couple years ago. He's still dealing with the consequences of ramming his car into the side of a building without his seatbelt on. He shattered his kneecaps and broke his left femur in I think four places. He's still got hardware holding the bone until it heals, and is taking antibiotics constantly to ward off the staph infection that is impossible to totally get rid of while the metal is still on his bone.
Marti knows now, and I felt terrible for the day that I kept it a secret from her. She would've told me immediately, and I still feel bad for not telling her. I hate that it turned out this way. Marti can't have him because he's gay, and I can't have him because he can't even say the word gay without flinching terribly.
There's a kid that lives across the driveway from my mom. He's TEENSY tiny, like thirty pounds, kid's a runt. Anyways, he's a badass little kid but in a cute harmless way. He checks people's mail because he's a nosey lil punk, and just generally runs all over the hill. Well, my mom heard my puppy freaking the f**K out barking at something, so she went and looked outside.
Lo and behold, there lies runt-kid on the ground with all seven of the dogs that live with the various people on that hill crowded around him, and he's screaming bloody murder. The dogs didn't try to hurt him, they wanted to play with him. He's just so tiny that they knocked him down and scratched him up without meaning to. Well, his parents are nowhere to be seen. Of course when she saw him she ran out and scooped him up and did the whole mom thing she's so good at, and then started toward his trailer to look for his mother.
They were having a birthday party and were evidently pretty sloshed and nobody seemed to know exactly where the mom was, so my mom just kept wandering and asking until she finally got somebody to take her to the kid's mom, who then just took the kid without a thanks or anything. Stupid bitch.
It's okay if you wanna get drunk, but you have to keep an eye on your kid. I mean goddamn, really? If you know you're gonna get that f**ked up, why not at least call someone that will watch him? Why not schedule a sleepover, or a playdate so you can do your party thing while he's having fun and is safely watched at the same time? It's not cool to neglect your kids and be a shitty parent because you wanna get drunk, or take xanax, or take lortabs, or are just too much of a little bitch to deal with life. KIDS don't ask to be born, and they deserve every possible bit of support that you can give them.
Okay, so yeah... all of these sad, ugly, f**ked up things have been happening. None of it has happened to me, but it makes me so frustrated. I want to clap my hands and all of it be fixed like some Mary Poppins shit. Blech. It makes me angry that people do that to kids, and it really pisses me off that my mother has to be the responsible person who takes care of everyone who's too lazy or f**ked up to do it themselves.
Rant over, which was all this really was. Like I said, I really wish I could just fix everything and it gets me irritated when I can't do anything to help anyone.
Hugs to you all, have an awesome day. Lub jooz.