Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
my friend, the bitch
It started out as a conversation about blow jobs, ended with her screaming obscenities in the driveway, and somewhere in the middle there was a lot of LSD, some good times, some oral sex, some really bad times, and a hell of a lot of crazy.
My friendship with "Jane".
I met Jane in high school. She was a year older than I, and really fucking bizarre. This coming from the girl who was voted "Most Eccentric" by her graduating class. But Jane, Jane was an altogether different kind of strange, a kind I had never known before: Jane was a straight up bitch.
Jane's particular brand of bitchery was foreign to me- she was a bitch, and she was proud of it. I was used to my mothers sniper-bitch ways; a cutting remark out of the blue, an insult wrapped in a "well meaning" compliment, that sort of thing. But Jane, Jane was just a in-your-face BITCH.
I had noticed Jane way before we met. It was hard not to. She had, at one point, dyed her gorgeous long thick hair electric blue. That sort of thing stands out in a crowd. When you add to it her ghostly paleness and constant judgemental smirk, she was rather unforgettable. Frankly, I found her entirely frightening. I just avoided her. I didn't particularly want to be anywhere near her, lest all that evil be directed at me.
Then, one day, it happened. I was in the library at school, and looking for a book. I sidled up one aisle and she was sitting on a bench in the middle of it. As I was reaching for my book and trying to quickly run away, she struck up a conversation with me. It was, of all things, about giving her boyfriend head.
I was flabbergasted. I mean, I didn't know this girl, never spoken a word to her, and she just suddenly says hi in the library and tells me about going down on her boyfriend? What the fuck? And while I was staring at her with that deer in the headlights look, I couldn't help but be fascinated. What kind of girl talks to random strangers about oral sex...in a library? And why the hell was she smiling? I'd never seen her do that before.
Somehow, I was drawn in.
She had a habit of confiding her most wretched secrets in me, which I mistakenly confused for friendship. It took me a few years to figure out that those secrets meant nothing to her, and that I was just another pawn in her life. Whether or not I ever meant anything to her at all, I couldn't say. I really don't know.
I thought we were great friends, and it was better to be on her side than against her. She was one of those people that falls under the category of "keep your friends close, and your enemies closer". I didn't realize that she was both. For a long time, I thought we were pals.
We hung out a lot. We did a lot of drugs together. We did a lot of silly things, fun things, and some scary things, too. She seemed happier during the years that we were friends, and I think my ability to be flippant and goofy was a kind of vacation for her, while her ability to be horrible and bitchy was a kind of shield for me to hide behind. If any evil needed to be done, I knew I could count on her to provide it. If I needed revenge on some horrible wrongdoer boyfriend, she was MORE than willing to go fuck up his car or stalk him, whatever. She could do all the happy silly things that she wanted to do while hiding behind the fact that it was "my" idea and she was just going along with it. I was sweet and she was mean, and together we made up one wacked out yin yang.
Looking back, I can see that Jane and I were fucked up in a lot of the same ways, but had learned to manifest the symptoms differently. She was exceedingly neurotic, a hypochondriac, and aggressive. I was bordering on psychosis, burying all my trauma under a smile, very passive, and hadn't really come into the full blown anxiety I would come to accept as normal years later. Both of us were total fucking trauma cases, but I think Jane's family had brought her trauma out in a totally different way.
Both her mom and sister were nuts. I mean, they frightened me far more than she did. I'm guessing she learned her reactions from them. I learned to hide everything. She learned to blow like a mother fucking volcano. My rage was something I kept inside, a slow acting poison. Hers was tangible, as if you would stand too close and be scarred for life. I envied that about her.
I still do.
But, as I learned from being around her, her actions brought karma. My lack of action brought regret. Is it worse to act and regret the action, or not act and regret the passivity? That's something I still don't have a full answer to.
Her bitchiness knew no bounds. When her fuck friend (we both had one, you know, that one person you seem to hook up with whenever you're single, but never actually date...) blew her off one night, she told me of her plan to get him back.
"I'm going to make him take me out to the nicest place in town. When we get there, I'll act like nothing is wrong. Then I'll order the most expensive thing on the menu, his parents are rich, what does he care? and wait for our drinks to come. When the drinks come, I'm going to stand up and scream, 'You fucking bastard!' and throw my drink in his face and storm out." Her eyes would glaze over, and she had a grin far more menacing then a cheshire cat.
She was ga-ga over that poor guy. At least, she was ga-ga about his money, or his parents money. Jane had aspirations, you see. When asked what she was looking for in a man, she would answer, "Rich. I want to marry rich, then divorce him and take his money and use it to open my own art studio." She wondered why nice guys weren't interested in her.
Her two favorite sexual fantasies were a bit too distrubing for me as well. She wanted someone to cut open her inner thigh with a knife and drink the blood, and also to scream at her in German while having sex. It was hard for me to not picture her having been reincarnated with her last lifetime being some kind of sadistic Nazi.
I took her to her first Dead show. We didn't make it past the parking lot, meaning, we didn't get tickets in. It didn't matter. All the way there she was agonizing over the fact that she let me drag her to some silly hippy thing, and then the magic happened. We were there, walking around, tripping out, and it was like watching a flower unfold. There was no one angry, no one being judgemental, no one like her. She just dropped it, like a discarded suit of armor. We ran around, singing, painting with water colors on our skin, talking to anybody at all. I talked to some people from Tennessee for awhile, and they invited us to just come with them. Just, you know, drop everything and don't go home. They'd make room for us if we wanted to come along, they said, and we could help them sell burritos or whatever they did.
(That accent! That sweet Southern accent! I knew I had to move down South. And I did, right out of high school. But for the time being, we stayed in Michigan.) And while the Grateful Dead closed the show at Pine Knob with "Not Fade Away", it was glorious. Jane and I stood there with the rest of the crowd that couldn't get in, and sang along with the echo at the end, "Love is real, not fade away...." over and over and listened to it bounce off the hill, watching the sun set. It was a beautiful moment.
Jane was an instant Dead fan after that. She blamed it on me. I let her.
She would take me to creepy shows in Detroit with a bunch of unsmiling people, some music that reminded me vaguely of Skinny Puppy. We sat up in top of St. Andrews and got high. We went to go see The Butthole Surfers together, and tripped balls (translate: took really strong acid). That show is a story in and of itself. We ran around Detroit, sometimes blowing bubbles, sometimes accosting the bible thumpers, just whatever happened to be going on at the moment.
For example (a tangent):
I remember going to the Blues Festival in Hart Plaza with her and a few other friends. For those of you not familiar with Detroit, Hart Plaza is an outdoor concert area, right down on the riverfront. It's free, anyone can come, and so that made for a rather interesting crowd. Beautiful and dangerous, as Detroit usually was.
This particular night we had gone with my ex boyfriend, and a new girl who had just moved to our area from somewhere in Ohio. We were all tripping, and I was keeping a close eye on the new girl, "Katy", because Katy had never tripped before and had never been to Detroit before, either. A recipe for disaster, and I wanted to avoid that if at all possible.
As we were walking down the very crowded sidewalk, I was looking over at Katy and all of a sudden Jane grabbed my arm, hard. I turned to find her holding her jaw and looking stunned, but still walking. "What? What is it?" I asked her. "Thumbody justh punthed me!" She was holding her face, and smiling, but in this crazy fucked up way, like I suppose you would if you were tripping and walking down the sidewalk and some random stranger just hauled off and punched you in the face and kept walking. No one around her reacted, and so she was having a little difficulty accepting the reality of what just occured, hence the weird smile.
"What??? Are you serious!?" She nodded, and we just kind of blinked at each other, unable to do anything about it. We were being swept along in the throng of people heading towards the festival, and what were going to do? Go find some guy (likely a crack head) and what, beat him up? So I asked her, "Are you ok?" and she just kind of nodded, dazed. I told her to not mention it to Katy, who might freak out if she knew. So, Jane kept it to herself.
Lest you wonder, no, she really was punched in the face. The next morning the left side of her jaw was purple and green.
We got to the festival and were having a grand old time, except for poor Katy who was baffled by some old guy wanting to dance with her. She kept smiling at me with this look of, "HELP!" so I wandered over to see what the problem was. It turned out she couldn't understand what he was saying. She thought he had a very strong accent (as in: black) and was freaked out that she couldn't seem to translate. I just laughed and told her it was cool, I would dance with him. She was relieved and went back to our friends. I explained to him that she just moved there and couldn't figure out what he was saying, and he thought that was pretty funny. We danced around in the plaza, while he kept telling me that I was the age of his daughter and he was a bad man for dancing with a girl so young. I just laughed. He was a sweet old guy, and we were just having fun.
A little while later I was walking with Katy, showing her around Hart Plaza, and looked up to see a folding chair go flying into the air. I grabbed her and screamed, "Back up! NOW!!!" and we ran backwards towards the waterfront, just barely avoiding a short lived but hideously violent riot. Ahh, Detroit. Hurrah for intuition, too. I mean, I guess. What else does a flying folding chair mean in a drunken crowd, you know?
At the riverfront, we ran back into our friends, who had also just barely avoided the riot, and we all kind of stood there, chilling out. I downplayed it so Katy wouldn't be too frightened, and just told her you have to keep on your toes while hanging out downtown. My ex mentioned how great it would be to have a joint, and someone just threw a half smoked joint at our feet while walking by. We all stared at it. I mean, that was a funny moment, especially funny on hallucinogens. We continued to stare at it while pondering aloud whether or not it was weed or weed laced with PCP, I mean, who knows? Being the young, stupid jackasses that we were, we decided to chance it. How long can a bunch of tripping stoners stare at some manna-pot-from-heaven burning up on the ground before them before they smoke it? I say about 20 seconds.
We did.
After the festival, we decided to drive back up I-75 butt naked. Just, you know, for the hell of it. Jane said she wanted to listen to some classical music she's got, so we put that tape in. The problem was, it was all classical music you hear a lot in old cartoons, so the whole thing was just ridiculously funny. There we were, riding down the highway in the nude, listening to some very fancy shmancy intellectual sounding classical music, but all I could picture was Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. I was trying so hard to keep a straight face and finally exploded with laughter. Jane decided that was a good moment to roll down her window and hang out of it, waving her bra at the people in the next car while screaming, "Hello!!! We're fucking naked in here! Hello!!!" but they refused to look over at us. I was crying I was laughing so hard.
We, of course, got off on Exit 69, Big Beaver Road. (Anyone from Michigan knows what I'm talking about. The rest of you, come on, figure out why that's so funny...) We put our clothes back on and drove home, just sedate as could be. Jane spent the night at my house, and I remember playing "Eyes of the World" by the Dead to fall asleep to, and waking up to her fantastically fucked up looking jaw.
That was how weird things were with Jane. By contrast, I went to the Jazz Festival with another friend of mine and we spent a long time talking to a bag lady (technically, a shopping cart lady), who was delusional and thought we were married and asked us about the baby. We went along with her and told her we were having a romantic night out alone, and she thought was just dandy. Then I spent quite some time sitting in a tree and smoking a joint with some truly ancient wrinkled little old black man who was sitting beneath the tree. He was wonderful.
The difference? With Jane, it seemed like everything was crazier, more dramatic, and bizarre.
I would even tape record our conversations when we were tripping, and we both sounded hysterical. There were points we couldn't tell who was talking, we couldn't even differentiate ourselves in the conversation. (insert Twilight Zone theme song here)
Then one day, we were sitting in the park. Jane had been telling me about hanging out with some gay friend of hers and how she had been talking with him about sexuality. Uh-oh, I thought. I knew where she was going with it, and I didn't really want it to go there. She finally asked me if I had ever thought of "having a bisexual experience". Well, yes, although that certainly wasn't how I thought of it. I told her about the girl I fell in love with when I ran away from home, how I had very serious feelings for her, but I had never gone through with any of them.
Jane asked me point blank if I wanted to try it with her.
Hmm.
Not really. To be frank, certainly not. I wasn't attracted to Jane, not even remotely. I had frequently wondered if being a lesbian would be easier, somehow, because of my rape issues and general fear of men. And then when I met Casey (the only girl love I've ever had) I wondered more seriously about it, but Jane? Yech.
(deep sigh) You who read much of my writing know that my sexual issues and passivity were tied together. Jane and I got it on. Right there in the park. Broad daylight. And it was horrible.
Which is sad...looking back I think how hot that would have been to watch, and how I might have been able to enjoy it, somehow, but I didn't. And so it's a shame, really. Alas.
(The details are in the sex blog version of this, in case you simply must know.)
And then...whatever. I was grossed out and tried not to let it show. She was all elated and proud of herself, like she was some sexually adventurous wild woman. I knew then that it was a matter of time before the whole school found out, and sure enough, they did. She liked to brag about it, and I liked to not think about it.
It never happened again. She would joke that it would, and I would laugh and blow her off. Did she sense my revulsion? I don't know. I was damn good at faking sexual pleasure by that point in my life.
Time traveled on, and we continued our strange friendship.
Then, one night, things suddenly changed. At least, I thought they did. I realized later that there was nothing different in her eyes, and thus our friendship was a heartbreak for me.
A group of us went to some reggae club in Detroit, that was well known for not carding and serving minors. It was me, Jane, my ex-boyfriend "Craig" (also Jane's friend), and my fuck friend, "Bill". I had met Jane's fuck friend, she had met mine, but it was public knowledge that the two were off limits to the other. Meaning, hooking up with the others fuck friend was completely off limits.
Because of that boundary, I was very confused to see Jane and Bill all grinding up against each other on the dance floor. I mean, at first I wasn't, because they were both ho's, but after a while I was starting to wonder. I sat in the corner, baffled, till Craig came up and asked me what was wrong.
"I don't get it," I said. "Why are Jane and Bill acting like that?" He just kind of looked at me for a minute, deciding what he wanted to say. He owed me nothing, since I broke his heart, and we both knew it. We were still friendly with each other, but it was a strained friendliness. He sat down.
"Look, I don't want to be the one to tell you this, but....Jane told me she's always wanted to sleep with Bill just to piss you off."
I stared at him. "What?" He nodded. "Why?" I implored. He shrugged, his shrug saying everything that either one of us needed to say: Because She's A Bitch.
"Oh." We sat there together for awhile and watched them, while I pondered the fact that her friendship with me was a lie, and how stupid I was to have believed in it. Duuuh. Of course. She's a bitch. What did I expect?
Well, Bill drove us home, and Jane sat up in the front seat with him. I silently fumed in the back as they dropped off Craig, who lived a block away from Jane, and then dropped me off (I lived a few blocks from Bill). Obviously, those two wanted to be alone together.
I wasn't mad at him, though. He owed me nothing. If I wanted to fuck his friends, he wouldn't give a shit. And I did, a few times. We didn't owe each other anything at all. But HER....we had a DEAL. If I had gone to sleep with her fuck friend, she'd have slit my fucking throat. No kidding. And there she was, trying to play off the whole thing as if I were too dumb to catch on. What a cunt.
I called Bill the next morning, and asked him how the rest of his night was. He laughed and told me he drove Jane back near her house, then parked in a dead end street and fucked her. "She's a real skank," he told me, and laughed. I just thanked him for telling me what the deal was, since I didn't expect to get it out of her, and hung up. No big deal.
She called me almost as soon as I hung up with him. "So, how'd your night go?" I asked her, innocently enough. She tried to play it off, telling me that he just drove her home and dropped her off. Uh huh.
I blew it off, and decided to wait. I wanted to see just how much of a total fucking cunt she was, and how long she could wait before she told me. I mean, what's the point in fucking him to piss me off if she didn't bother to tell me?
Well, she never did. I remained "friends" with her for about a year longer. I finally confronted her and she denied it. I told her that he had told me about it the next morning and her eyes got wide. She knew she was busted, but she decided to opt for the no-going-back route. She told me he was a liar and blah blah blah. I told her what Craig said that night in the bar. She denied it all.
So what was the point?
I told her I was really hurt, but that I still wanted to be friends. About a week later I showed up at her house while she was in the shower. I snuck in, grabbed her thigh high super slut black suede boots and stashed them in the trunk of my car. They were her pride and joy, and cost her quite a bit of money. I then drove straight to a resale shop and sold them to them for cheap, getting maybe $80 out of the deal.
Jane figured it out. She called me and I gave her a taste of The Denial Game. Her mom called my mom, who marched me out to the car to find these boots. She searched my room. She looked all over.
(grins Jane's evil grin) Nope. Not there. I certainly wouldn't do a thing like that! We're friends, after all! My friend wouldn't fuck Bill behind my back and lie about it for over a year, and I certainly wouldn't steal and then sell her $300 suede boots! Friends don't do things like that to each other, after all. It's just not nice.
Being the nice person that I am, I wrote her a letter years later and apologized, offering to pay for the boots. I told her my passive aggressive attempt to get revenge was childish and I was willing to make amends. She never answered me.
The last time I saw her was at another ex-boyfriend's house. Jane showed up with her best friend, none other than HIS ex-girlfriend, who was well known for being (guess what?) a total bitch. The ex girlfriend just let herself in and the two of them walked downstairs, only to find he and I sitting there talking. They turned around, walked back out and started the car. Before they drove off, they were both screaming like lunatics and honking the horn, yelling out the windows about what a stupid bitch and whore I was, yadda yadda.
He and I both looked at each other and agreed that old saying about birds of a feather must be right.
My friendship with "Jane".
I met Jane in high school. She was a year older than I, and really fucking bizarre. This coming from the girl who was voted "Most Eccentric" by her graduating class. But Jane, Jane was an altogether different kind of strange, a kind I had never known before: Jane was a straight up bitch.
Jane's particular brand of bitchery was foreign to me- she was a bitch, and she was proud of it. I was used to my mothers sniper-bitch ways; a cutting remark out of the blue, an insult wrapped in a "well meaning" compliment, that sort of thing. But Jane, Jane was just a in-your-face BITCH.
I had noticed Jane way before we met. It was hard not to. She had, at one point, dyed her gorgeous long thick hair electric blue. That sort of thing stands out in a crowd. When you add to it her ghostly paleness and constant judgemental smirk, she was rather unforgettable. Frankly, I found her entirely frightening. I just avoided her. I didn't particularly want to be anywhere near her, lest all that evil be directed at me.
Then, one day, it happened. I was in the library at school, and looking for a book. I sidled up one aisle and she was sitting on a bench in the middle of it. As I was reaching for my book and trying to quickly run away, she struck up a conversation with me. It was, of all things, about giving her boyfriend head.
I was flabbergasted. I mean, I didn't know this girl, never spoken a word to her, and she just suddenly says hi in the library and tells me about going down on her boyfriend? What the fuck? And while I was staring at her with that deer in the headlights look, I couldn't help but be fascinated. What kind of girl talks to random strangers about oral sex...in a library? And why the hell was she smiling? I'd never seen her do that before.
Somehow, I was drawn in.
She had a habit of confiding her most wretched secrets in me, which I mistakenly confused for friendship. It took me a few years to figure out that those secrets meant nothing to her, and that I was just another pawn in her life. Whether or not I ever meant anything to her at all, I couldn't say. I really don't know.
I thought we were great friends, and it was better to be on her side than against her. She was one of those people that falls under the category of "keep your friends close, and your enemies closer". I didn't realize that she was both. For a long time, I thought we were pals.
We hung out a lot. We did a lot of drugs together. We did a lot of silly things, fun things, and some scary things, too. She seemed happier during the years that we were friends, and I think my ability to be flippant and goofy was a kind of vacation for her, while her ability to be horrible and bitchy was a kind of shield for me to hide behind. If any evil needed to be done, I knew I could count on her to provide it. If I needed revenge on some horrible wrongdoer boyfriend, she was MORE than willing to go fuck up his car or stalk him, whatever. She could do all the happy silly things that she wanted to do while hiding behind the fact that it was "my" idea and she was just going along with it. I was sweet and she was mean, and together we made up one wacked out yin yang.
Looking back, I can see that Jane and I were fucked up in a lot of the same ways, but had learned to manifest the symptoms differently. She was exceedingly neurotic, a hypochondriac, and aggressive. I was bordering on psychosis, burying all my trauma under a smile, very passive, and hadn't really come into the full blown anxiety I would come to accept as normal years later. Both of us were total fucking trauma cases, but I think Jane's family had brought her trauma out in a totally different way.
Both her mom and sister were nuts. I mean, they frightened me far more than she did. I'm guessing she learned her reactions from them. I learned to hide everything. She learned to blow like a mother fucking volcano. My rage was something I kept inside, a slow acting poison. Hers was tangible, as if you would stand too close and be scarred for life. I envied that about her.
I still do.
But, as I learned from being around her, her actions brought karma. My lack of action brought regret. Is it worse to act and regret the action, or not act and regret the passivity? That's something I still don't have a full answer to.
Her bitchiness knew no bounds. When her fuck friend (we both had one, you know, that one person you seem to hook up with whenever you're single, but never actually date...) blew her off one night, she told me of her plan to get him back.
"I'm going to make him take me out to the nicest place in town. When we get there, I'll act like nothing is wrong. Then I'll order the most expensive thing on the menu, his parents are rich, what does he care? and wait for our drinks to come. When the drinks come, I'm going to stand up and scream, 'You fucking bastard!' and throw my drink in his face and storm out." Her eyes would glaze over, and she had a grin far more menacing then a cheshire cat.
She was ga-ga over that poor guy. At least, she was ga-ga about his money, or his parents money. Jane had aspirations, you see. When asked what she was looking for in a man, she would answer, "Rich. I want to marry rich, then divorce him and take his money and use it to open my own art studio." She wondered why nice guys weren't interested in her.
Her two favorite sexual fantasies were a bit too distrubing for me as well. She wanted someone to cut open her inner thigh with a knife and drink the blood, and also to scream at her in German while having sex. It was hard for me to not picture her having been reincarnated with her last lifetime being some kind of sadistic Nazi.
I took her to her first Dead show. We didn't make it past the parking lot, meaning, we didn't get tickets in. It didn't matter. All the way there she was agonizing over the fact that she let me drag her to some silly hippy thing, and then the magic happened. We were there, walking around, tripping out, and it was like watching a flower unfold. There was no one angry, no one being judgemental, no one like her. She just dropped it, like a discarded suit of armor. We ran around, singing, painting with water colors on our skin, talking to anybody at all. I talked to some people from Tennessee for awhile, and they invited us to just come with them. Just, you know, drop everything and don't go home. They'd make room for us if we wanted to come along, they said, and we could help them sell burritos or whatever they did.
(That accent! That sweet Southern accent! I knew I had to move down South. And I did, right out of high school. But for the time being, we stayed in Michigan.) And while the Grateful Dead closed the show at Pine Knob with "Not Fade Away", it was glorious. Jane and I stood there with the rest of the crowd that couldn't get in, and sang along with the echo at the end, "Love is real, not fade away...." over and over and listened to it bounce off the hill, watching the sun set. It was a beautiful moment.
Jane was an instant Dead fan after that. She blamed it on me. I let her.
She would take me to creepy shows in Detroit with a bunch of unsmiling people, some music that reminded me vaguely of Skinny Puppy. We sat up in top of St. Andrews and got high. We went to go see The Butthole Surfers together, and tripped balls (translate: took really strong acid). That show is a story in and of itself. We ran around Detroit, sometimes blowing bubbles, sometimes accosting the bible thumpers, just whatever happened to be going on at the moment.
For example (a tangent):
I remember going to the Blues Festival in Hart Plaza with her and a few other friends. For those of you not familiar with Detroit, Hart Plaza is an outdoor concert area, right down on the riverfront. It's free, anyone can come, and so that made for a rather interesting crowd. Beautiful and dangerous, as Detroit usually was.
This particular night we had gone with my ex boyfriend, and a new girl who had just moved to our area from somewhere in Ohio. We were all tripping, and I was keeping a close eye on the new girl, "Katy", because Katy had never tripped before and had never been to Detroit before, either. A recipe for disaster, and I wanted to avoid that if at all possible.
As we were walking down the very crowded sidewalk, I was looking over at Katy and all of a sudden Jane grabbed my arm, hard. I turned to find her holding her jaw and looking stunned, but still walking. "What? What is it?" I asked her. "Thumbody justh punthed me!" She was holding her face, and smiling, but in this crazy fucked up way, like I suppose you would if you were tripping and walking down the sidewalk and some random stranger just hauled off and punched you in the face and kept walking. No one around her reacted, and so she was having a little difficulty accepting the reality of what just occured, hence the weird smile.
"What??? Are you serious!?" She nodded, and we just kind of blinked at each other, unable to do anything about it. We were being swept along in the throng of people heading towards the festival, and what were going to do? Go find some guy (likely a crack head) and what, beat him up? So I asked her, "Are you ok?" and she just kind of nodded, dazed. I told her to not mention it to Katy, who might freak out if she knew. So, Jane kept it to herself.
Lest you wonder, no, she really was punched in the face. The next morning the left side of her jaw was purple and green.
We got to the festival and were having a grand old time, except for poor Katy who was baffled by some old guy wanting to dance with her. She kept smiling at me with this look of, "HELP!" so I wandered over to see what the problem was. It turned out she couldn't understand what he was saying. She thought he had a very strong accent (as in: black) and was freaked out that she couldn't seem to translate. I just laughed and told her it was cool, I would dance with him. She was relieved and went back to our friends. I explained to him that she just moved there and couldn't figure out what he was saying, and he thought that was pretty funny. We danced around in the plaza, while he kept telling me that I was the age of his daughter and he was a bad man for dancing with a girl so young. I just laughed. He was a sweet old guy, and we were just having fun.
A little while later I was walking with Katy, showing her around Hart Plaza, and looked up to see a folding chair go flying into the air. I grabbed her and screamed, "Back up! NOW!!!" and we ran backwards towards the waterfront, just barely avoiding a short lived but hideously violent riot. Ahh, Detroit. Hurrah for intuition, too. I mean, I guess. What else does a flying folding chair mean in a drunken crowd, you know?
At the riverfront, we ran back into our friends, who had also just barely avoided the riot, and we all kind of stood there, chilling out. I downplayed it so Katy wouldn't be too frightened, and just told her you have to keep on your toes while hanging out downtown. My ex mentioned how great it would be to have a joint, and someone just threw a half smoked joint at our feet while walking by. We all stared at it. I mean, that was a funny moment, especially funny on hallucinogens. We continued to stare at it while pondering aloud whether or not it was weed or weed laced with PCP, I mean, who knows? Being the young, stupid jackasses that we were, we decided to chance it. How long can a bunch of tripping stoners stare at some manna-pot-from-heaven burning up on the ground before them before they smoke it? I say about 20 seconds.
We did.
After the festival, we decided to drive back up I-75 butt naked. Just, you know, for the hell of it. Jane said she wanted to listen to some classical music she's got, so we put that tape in. The problem was, it was all classical music you hear a lot in old cartoons, so the whole thing was just ridiculously funny. There we were, riding down the highway in the nude, listening to some very fancy shmancy intellectual sounding classical music, but all I could picture was Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. I was trying so hard to keep a straight face and finally exploded with laughter. Jane decided that was a good moment to roll down her window and hang out of it, waving her bra at the people in the next car while screaming, "Hello!!! We're fucking naked in here! Hello!!!" but they refused to look over at us. I was crying I was laughing so hard.
We, of course, got off on Exit 69, Big Beaver Road. (Anyone from Michigan knows what I'm talking about. The rest of you, come on, figure out why that's so funny...) We put our clothes back on and drove home, just sedate as could be. Jane spent the night at my house, and I remember playing "Eyes of the World" by the Dead to fall asleep to, and waking up to her fantastically fucked up looking jaw.
That was how weird things were with Jane. By contrast, I went to the Jazz Festival with another friend of mine and we spent a long time talking to a bag lady (technically, a shopping cart lady), who was delusional and thought we were married and asked us about the baby. We went along with her and told her we were having a romantic night out alone, and she thought was just dandy. Then I spent quite some time sitting in a tree and smoking a joint with some truly ancient wrinkled little old black man who was sitting beneath the tree. He was wonderful.
The difference? With Jane, it seemed like everything was crazier, more dramatic, and bizarre.
I would even tape record our conversations when we were tripping, and we both sounded hysterical. There were points we couldn't tell who was talking, we couldn't even differentiate ourselves in the conversation. (insert Twilight Zone theme song here)
Then one day, we were sitting in the park. Jane had been telling me about hanging out with some gay friend of hers and how she had been talking with him about sexuality. Uh-oh, I thought. I knew where she was going with it, and I didn't really want it to go there. She finally asked me if I had ever thought of "having a bisexual experience". Well, yes, although that certainly wasn't how I thought of it. I told her about the girl I fell in love with when I ran away from home, how I had very serious feelings for her, but I had never gone through with any of them.
Jane asked me point blank if I wanted to try it with her.
Hmm.
Not really. To be frank, certainly not. I wasn't attracted to Jane, not even remotely. I had frequently wondered if being a lesbian would be easier, somehow, because of my rape issues and general fear of men. And then when I met Casey (the only girl love I've ever had) I wondered more seriously about it, but Jane? Yech.
(deep sigh) You who read much of my writing know that my sexual issues and passivity were tied together. Jane and I got it on. Right there in the park. Broad daylight. And it was horrible.
Which is sad...looking back I think how hot that would have been to watch, and how I might have been able to enjoy it, somehow, but I didn't. And so it's a shame, really. Alas.
(The details are in the sex blog version of this, in case you simply must know.)
And then...whatever. I was grossed out and tried not to let it show. She was all elated and proud of herself, like she was some sexually adventurous wild woman. I knew then that it was a matter of time before the whole school found out, and sure enough, they did. She liked to brag about it, and I liked to not think about it.
It never happened again. She would joke that it would, and I would laugh and blow her off. Did she sense my revulsion? I don't know. I was damn good at faking sexual pleasure by that point in my life.
Time traveled on, and we continued our strange friendship.
Then, one night, things suddenly changed. At least, I thought they did. I realized later that there was nothing different in her eyes, and thus our friendship was a heartbreak for me.
A group of us went to some reggae club in Detroit, that was well known for not carding and serving minors. It was me, Jane, my ex-boyfriend "Craig" (also Jane's friend), and my fuck friend, "Bill". I had met Jane's fuck friend, she had met mine, but it was public knowledge that the two were off limits to the other. Meaning, hooking up with the others fuck friend was completely off limits.
Because of that boundary, I was very confused to see Jane and Bill all grinding up against each other on the dance floor. I mean, at first I wasn't, because they were both ho's, but after a while I was starting to wonder. I sat in the corner, baffled, till Craig came up and asked me what was wrong.
"I don't get it," I said. "Why are Jane and Bill acting like that?" He just kind of looked at me for a minute, deciding what he wanted to say. He owed me nothing, since I broke his heart, and we both knew it. We were still friendly with each other, but it was a strained friendliness. He sat down.
"Look, I don't want to be the one to tell you this, but....Jane told me she's always wanted to sleep with Bill just to piss you off."
I stared at him. "What?" He nodded. "Why?" I implored. He shrugged, his shrug saying everything that either one of us needed to say: Because She's A Bitch.
"Oh." We sat there together for awhile and watched them, while I pondered the fact that her friendship with me was a lie, and how stupid I was to have believed in it. Duuuh. Of course. She's a bitch. What did I expect?
Well, Bill drove us home, and Jane sat up in the front seat with him. I silently fumed in the back as they dropped off Craig, who lived a block away from Jane, and then dropped me off (I lived a few blocks from Bill). Obviously, those two wanted to be alone together.
I wasn't mad at him, though. He owed me nothing. If I wanted to fuck his friends, he wouldn't give a shit. And I did, a few times. We didn't owe each other anything at all. But HER....we had a DEAL. If I had gone to sleep with her fuck friend, she'd have slit my fucking throat. No kidding. And there she was, trying to play off the whole thing as if I were too dumb to catch on. What a cunt.
I called Bill the next morning, and asked him how the rest of his night was. He laughed and told me he drove Jane back near her house, then parked in a dead end street and fucked her. "She's a real skank," he told me, and laughed. I just thanked him for telling me what the deal was, since I didn't expect to get it out of her, and hung up. No big deal.
She called me almost as soon as I hung up with him. "So, how'd your night go?" I asked her, innocently enough. She tried to play it off, telling me that he just drove her home and dropped her off. Uh huh.
I blew it off, and decided to wait. I wanted to see just how much of a total fucking cunt she was, and how long she could wait before she told me. I mean, what's the point in fucking him to piss me off if she didn't bother to tell me?
Well, she never did. I remained "friends" with her for about a year longer. I finally confronted her and she denied it. I told her that he had told me about it the next morning and her eyes got wide. She knew she was busted, but she decided to opt for the no-going-back route. She told me he was a liar and blah blah blah. I told her what Craig said that night in the bar. She denied it all.
So what was the point?
I told her I was really hurt, but that I still wanted to be friends. About a week later I showed up at her house while she was in the shower. I snuck in, grabbed her thigh high super slut black suede boots and stashed them in the trunk of my car. They were her pride and joy, and cost her quite a bit of money. I then drove straight to a resale shop and sold them to them for cheap, getting maybe $80 out of the deal.
Jane figured it out. She called me and I gave her a taste of The Denial Game. Her mom called my mom, who marched me out to the car to find these boots. She searched my room. She looked all over.
(grins Jane's evil grin) Nope. Not there. I certainly wouldn't do a thing like that! We're friends, after all! My friend wouldn't fuck Bill behind my back and lie about it for over a year, and I certainly wouldn't steal and then sell her $300 suede boots! Friends don't do things like that to each other, after all. It's just not nice.
Being the nice person that I am, I wrote her a letter years later and apologized, offering to pay for the boots. I told her my passive aggressive attempt to get revenge was childish and I was willing to make amends. She never answered me.
The last time I saw her was at another ex-boyfriend's house. Jane showed up with her best friend, none other than HIS ex-girlfriend, who was well known for being (guess what?) a total bitch. The ex girlfriend just let herself in and the two of them walked downstairs, only to find he and I sitting there talking. They turned around, walked back out and started the car. Before they drove off, they were both screaming like lunatics and honking the horn, yelling out the windows about what a stupid bitch and whore I was, yadda yadda.
He and I both looked at each other and agreed that old saying about birds of a feather must be right.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Friday, November 25, 2005
my ode to pumpkin pie
Is there anything better in the world than a mouthful of pumpkin pie and whipped cream?
Oh, I know, I have previously blogged before about what a whore I am for pickled ginger, but really, this can't come close. Pickled ginger has it's own charm, being mostly guilt free, but pie...pie...
Pumpkin pie was the first thing I ever tried to cook by scratch. I was maybe fifteen, likely high as hell, and was pondering how much I loved pumpkin pie. We had an extra punpkin no one used on Halloween. I didn't know at the time that it isn't the right sort of pumpkin to use, but it turned out not bad anyway. Critics be golly gosh darned.
I got out my moms ancient Betty Crocker cookbook, and went to work. You have to gut the pumpkin and all, then slice it into pieces and bake it. While all that was going on I was making the pie shell, figuring how how the hell to use a rolling pin, and having a pretty good time with that crimping shit you do on the side of the shell.
You have to blend the pumpkin once it's cooked, but that was either before we owned a Cuisanart, or I was just too wussy to try to figure it out. Instead, I just mashed it up a bunch and called it good.
Turned out the recipe I was following made about 8 pies. I baked all day, and when I bit into one I found out why you have to grind up the pumpkin- it's a very stringy gourd. I had made a whole hell of a lot of very delicious, very stringy, chewy pies.
If you think for one second that it stopped me from devouring them all in those next few weeks, you are mistaken, my friend.
I ate them all.
And just so you know, I make them by the can now. You can do all that work, but the closest metaphor I can come up with was laboring with my son for 24 hours, only to end up having a C-section. You know what? Just buy a damn can of pumpkin. It's ok.
Oh god. I think I'm going to go have to eat some more.
Oh, I know, I have previously blogged before about what a whore I am for pickled ginger, but really, this can't come close. Pickled ginger has it's own charm, being mostly guilt free, but pie...pie...
Pumpkin pie was the first thing I ever tried to cook by scratch. I was maybe fifteen, likely high as hell, and was pondering how much I loved pumpkin pie. We had an extra punpkin no one used on Halloween. I didn't know at the time that it isn't the right sort of pumpkin to use, but it turned out not bad anyway. Critics be golly gosh darned.
I got out my moms ancient Betty Crocker cookbook, and went to work. You have to gut the pumpkin and all, then slice it into pieces and bake it. While all that was going on I was making the pie shell, figuring how how the hell to use a rolling pin, and having a pretty good time with that crimping shit you do on the side of the shell.
You have to blend the pumpkin once it's cooked, but that was either before we owned a Cuisanart, or I was just too wussy to try to figure it out. Instead, I just mashed it up a bunch and called it good.
Turned out the recipe I was following made about 8 pies. I baked all day, and when I bit into one I found out why you have to grind up the pumpkin- it's a very stringy gourd. I had made a whole hell of a lot of very delicious, very stringy, chewy pies.
If you think for one second that it stopped me from devouring them all in those next few weeks, you are mistaken, my friend.
I ate them all.
And just so you know, I make them by the can now. You can do all that work, but the closest metaphor I can come up with was laboring with my son for 24 hours, only to end up having a C-section. You know what? Just buy a damn can of pumpkin. It's ok.
Oh god. I think I'm going to go have to eat some more.
a hell of a tie
 | You scored as James Bond, Agent 007. James Bond is MI6's best agent, a suave, sophisticated super spy with charm, cunning, and a license's to kill. He doesn't care about rules or regulations and somewhat amoral. He does care about saving humanity though, as well as the beautiful women who fill his world. Bond has expensive tastes, a wide knowledge of many subjects, and his usually armed with a clever gadget and an appropriate one-liner.
Which Action Hero Would You Be? v. 2.0 created with QuizFarm.com |
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
sex and slurpees
~A reprint from the sex blog~
Cue Obi Wan's glowing spectralness saying, "Luke! Don't underestimate the power of the Slurpee!"
Fade out.
I listened, Obi Wan. It's cool.
At eighteen, I had a boyfriend named "Jay". Jay was absolutely gorgeous, tall, muscular but lithe, all dimples and shining grins, the spirit of a schoolboy in the body a farmboy (literally, he worked on a farm for many years).
Everything about him was adorable. From the skip in his walk when he was happy, to the total concentration he would give me when I spoke. Oh, that look. That look as if the whole world had fallen away and it was just me and him, the look that conveyed wha~tever came out of my mouth was golden and worth dropping everything for.
He was the epitome of dreamy.
And of course, he was a few years older than I was. I always had a thing for the older guys.
At the time we met, I was working in a health food store as a cashier. He worked in the produce department. I'd seen him around, you know, but hadn't spoken to him past the word, "Hi."
One night he came striding purposefully up to the register. I watched him walk, without trying to be too obvious, nor drool so much that my register shorted out. At about 10 feet away, once eye contact was undeniable, he burst into a lopsided boyish grin.
He then held out his arm, opened his hand, and presented me with a strawberry. One, glistening, plump, delectable strawberry.
"I was sorting strawberries," he said, in his masculine but still aw-shucks kind of way. "This one is absolutely perfect."
I stared at it.
"Here," he said, and held his hand closer to me. "I want you to have it."
I stared. While the images of me slowly and sensually eating it out of upturned palm, having sex on piles of strawberries, getting married, riding off on a white horse into the beautiful sunrise and living happily ever after flooded my brain, my hand at least had enough sense to reach out and take the strawberry.
I looked up at him. "Thanks," I mustered. He waited. "Aren't you going to eat it?" he asked. "Oh...no...." I managed breathlessly. "I want to savor it for awhile."
He smiled hugely, turned on his heel and strode back to the produce washing area. Had I been any older and more experienced, I would have cum on the spot.
The strawberry? I waited till I got home, carefully making sure it's perfection wasn't tainted in any way. I pondered sleeping with it under my pillow, but knew that was asking for disaster. So, there, in my bed, laying in the dark, alone, I feasted on this perfect strawberry. I lay back, with thoughts of a sandy haired lover, and fell asleep.
I would say it was maybe a month later we were living together.
I adored him. He was so fun. Such giddy, jump in the air and click your heels together fun. That was back in my doing LSD days, and we tripped together a lot and went on adventures and I just adored him.
He was the first boy I ever sang to.
I had been in church choir since I was old enough to speak, and show choirs and all that for years. I can sing. I had vocal training, enunciation, the whole shebang.
I quit singing the year I was raped. I'm sure it's no coincidence.
But one night, in the parking lot after work, I sat in the back of Jay's van and played a Tracy Chapman tape on this little tape deck I had with me, and sang along. He listened, rapt. "You're so beautiful," he would tell me, and I felt like a shining star, always.
I remember one day I was singing Vanessa Rubin's version of "I've Got The World On A String" in the shower, really belting it out, and when I got out I found Jay sitting kind of shocked and looking forlorn in our bedroom. "What's the matter, honey?" I asked. "You are so beautiful," he said, "there's no way I deserve you."
Shoooo.
Let me not imply that those were days of wine and roses, or even beer and dandelions, no. Jay had some very serious blood sugar problems, and both of us had serious sexual issues.
The blood sugar issues I managed to decipher first. Jay had A Thing for Slurpee's from 7-11, and I don't mean he had a thing, he had A Thing for them. I soon learned that any problem whatsoever could be solved with a Slurpee.
We would be mid-argument, and I would yell at him, "Fuck you! I'm going to 7-11!" to which the argument would be forgotten and he would instantly turn into a happy dog bouncing up and down at the door, "Ooooh, oooh, can I go? Huh? Can I?" We'd drive there, he'd act like a kid going to fucking Disneyworld, and get his Slurpee, happily sucking it down. I've never witnessed anything like it since.
Then there were the sexual issues, which were our unraveling.
Jay had been molested when he was younger, and I had been raped. That left two damaged people trying to deal with their own knee jerk reactions to sex, and also to deal with the knee jerk reactions of their partner.
It didn't work, plain and simple.
My issue was that sex would leave me feeling dirty and used, and I needed comfort and close contact to make it work.
Jay's issues manifested in a way that made him totally ok with sex one moment, and then horrified and disgusted the next.
How did that turn out? Well, we'd be going along ok, then he would just look at me like I was revolting, push off of me and say, "Ugh! This is gross!" and run out of the room.
No shit.
So there I would be, trembling and shattered, no one there to put me back together, or even hold my hand through it and explain.
~sigh~
We both finally accepted that there was no way for us to be together, that our combined trauma was too powerful for us to work out together and we might be doing more damage than good.
That is not to say the ending was easy. The next girl he wanted to date was a virgin. Seeing as how I lost my virginity by being raped, I found this a hideous personal offense. We were still living together, still friends, you see. And listening to the man I wanted to be with wax fucking poetic about how he wanted to be with this girl who was so beautiful because of her purity....well... it enraged me.
One night I exploded and started screaming at him in the kitchen, telling him that he wanted to destroy the very thing that made him like her so much, and what a selfish stupid bastard he was.
That went over well. *cough*
He started dating one of my friends soon after, and that I was ok with. I really liked her, and he needed to be with someone who wouldn't react to his trauma in the way that I did. I knew it. That's just the way it was. We were all friends, but it was a bit weird.
I moved out shortly thereafter. I mean, it wasn't just Jay and I living there, there was a bunch of our friends there, it was a big place. But I couldn't just keep living with him.
Some things even a Slurpee can't fix, you know?
Sometimes I wonder what happened to him, and if he's ok. I wonder if he still drinks Slurpees.
(If you want to here the song I sang while in the shower, it's the next post down...)
Cue Obi Wan's glowing spectralness saying, "Luke! Don't underestimate the power of the Slurpee!"
Fade out.
I listened, Obi Wan. It's cool.
At eighteen, I had a boyfriend named "Jay". Jay was absolutely gorgeous, tall, muscular but lithe, all dimples and shining grins, the spirit of a schoolboy in the body a farmboy (literally, he worked on a farm for many years).
Everything about him was adorable. From the skip in his walk when he was happy, to the total concentration he would give me when I spoke. Oh, that look. That look as if the whole world had fallen away and it was just me and him, the look that conveyed wha~tever came out of my mouth was golden and worth dropping everything for.
He was the epitome of dreamy.
And of course, he was a few years older than I was. I always had a thing for the older guys.
At the time we met, I was working in a health food store as a cashier. He worked in the produce department. I'd seen him around, you know, but hadn't spoken to him past the word, "Hi."
One night he came striding purposefully up to the register. I watched him walk, without trying to be too obvious, nor drool so much that my register shorted out. At about 10 feet away, once eye contact was undeniable, he burst into a lopsided boyish grin.
He then held out his arm, opened his hand, and presented me with a strawberry. One, glistening, plump, delectable strawberry.
"I was sorting strawberries," he said, in his masculine but still aw-shucks kind of way. "This one is absolutely perfect."
I stared at it.
"Here," he said, and held his hand closer to me. "I want you to have it."
I stared. While the images of me slowly and sensually eating it out of upturned palm, having sex on piles of strawberries, getting married, riding off on a white horse into the beautiful sunrise and living happily ever after flooded my brain, my hand at least had enough sense to reach out and take the strawberry.
I looked up at him. "Thanks," I mustered. He waited. "Aren't you going to eat it?" he asked. "Oh...no...." I managed breathlessly. "I want to savor it for awhile."
He smiled hugely, turned on his heel and strode back to the produce washing area. Had I been any older and more experienced, I would have cum on the spot.
The strawberry? I waited till I got home, carefully making sure it's perfection wasn't tainted in any way. I pondered sleeping with it under my pillow, but knew that was asking for disaster. So, there, in my bed, laying in the dark, alone, I feasted on this perfect strawberry. I lay back, with thoughts of a sandy haired lover, and fell asleep.
I would say it was maybe a month later we were living together.
I adored him. He was so fun. Such giddy, jump in the air and click your heels together fun. That was back in my doing LSD days, and we tripped together a lot and went on adventures and I just adored him.
He was the first boy I ever sang to.
I had been in church choir since I was old enough to speak, and show choirs and all that for years. I can sing. I had vocal training, enunciation, the whole shebang.
I quit singing the year I was raped. I'm sure it's no coincidence.
But one night, in the parking lot after work, I sat in the back of Jay's van and played a Tracy Chapman tape on this little tape deck I had with me, and sang along. He listened, rapt. "You're so beautiful," he would tell me, and I felt like a shining star, always.
I remember one day I was singing Vanessa Rubin's version of "I've Got The World On A String" in the shower, really belting it out, and when I got out I found Jay sitting kind of shocked and looking forlorn in our bedroom. "What's the matter, honey?" I asked. "You are so beautiful," he said, "there's no way I deserve you."
Shoooo.
Let me not imply that those were days of wine and roses, or even beer and dandelions, no. Jay had some very serious blood sugar problems, and both of us had serious sexual issues.
The blood sugar issues I managed to decipher first. Jay had A Thing for Slurpee's from 7-11, and I don't mean he had a thing, he had A Thing for them. I soon learned that any problem whatsoever could be solved with a Slurpee.
We would be mid-argument, and I would yell at him, "Fuck you! I'm going to 7-11!" to which the argument would be forgotten and he would instantly turn into a happy dog bouncing up and down at the door, "Ooooh, oooh, can I go? Huh? Can I?" We'd drive there, he'd act like a kid going to fucking Disneyworld, and get his Slurpee, happily sucking it down. I've never witnessed anything like it since.
Then there were the sexual issues, which were our unraveling.
Jay had been molested when he was younger, and I had been raped. That left two damaged people trying to deal with their own knee jerk reactions to sex, and also to deal with the knee jerk reactions of their partner.
It didn't work, plain and simple.
My issue was that sex would leave me feeling dirty and used, and I needed comfort and close contact to make it work.
Jay's issues manifested in a way that made him totally ok with sex one moment, and then horrified and disgusted the next.
How did that turn out? Well, we'd be going along ok, then he would just look at me like I was revolting, push off of me and say, "Ugh! This is gross!" and run out of the room.
No shit.
So there I would be, trembling and shattered, no one there to put me back together, or even hold my hand through it and explain.
~sigh~
We both finally accepted that there was no way for us to be together, that our combined trauma was too powerful for us to work out together and we might be doing more damage than good.
That is not to say the ending was easy. The next girl he wanted to date was a virgin. Seeing as how I lost my virginity by being raped, I found this a hideous personal offense. We were still living together, still friends, you see. And listening to the man I wanted to be with wax fucking poetic about how he wanted to be with this girl who was so beautiful because of her purity....well... it enraged me.
One night I exploded and started screaming at him in the kitchen, telling him that he wanted to destroy the very thing that made him like her so much, and what a selfish stupid bastard he was.
That went over well. *cough*
He started dating one of my friends soon after, and that I was ok with. I really liked her, and he needed to be with someone who wouldn't react to his trauma in the way that I did. I knew it. That's just the way it was. We were all friends, but it was a bit weird.
I moved out shortly thereafter. I mean, it wasn't just Jay and I living there, there was a bunch of our friends there, it was a big place. But I couldn't just keep living with him.
Some things even a Slurpee can't fix, you know?
Sometimes I wonder what happened to him, and if he's ok. I wonder if he still drinks Slurpees.
(If you want to here the song I sang while in the shower, it's the next post down...)
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
crappy conversation
I'm just wondering... does anyone else get a kick out being able to poop in a public restroom when no one else is in there to bust you? I mean, you know, when other people are in there, it's obvious who made the smell, but those rare times you can run in, poop, and run back out before anyone else shows up...
I am the only one who feels this is some sort of small victory in life?
I am the only one who feels this is some sort of small victory in life?
Monday, November 21, 2005
The Wedding
Where to start?
It was a blur. Everyone tells you that it will be, and it is, they are correct. So much happened that a lot of it is meshed weirdly in my mind, like, I remember someone saying something or doing something in particular, but not WHO it was that said or did it. Strange little bits like that.
The most important part of it all that I want to share: I was totally surprised.
I have never felt such an incredible outpouring of love and support, ever, in my life.
I was surprised at how everyone acted, to me, to us, to each other. I was surprised at how I acted.
(shakes head) There's just so many things... I'll have to ramble and see if I can pull it all together somehow. It's been over a week since I wrote anything I must confess to feeling rusty.
First, as soon as people started arriving (two days early) they wanted to help. There was much to do still, no doubt. I needed help, they were more than willing, but I'll be damned if it wasn't hard as hell to delegate and tell people what to do.
Part of that is that I'm used to obsessively doing everything myself, and have difficulty letting my own projects go into other peoples hands. Another part of it that I am unused to ordering anyone to do anything, other than my son (laughs). It was a strange exercise in assertiveness. I found it completely bizarre that my home was filled with people who were simply not content to sit and relax, they were only comfortable when they were doing things for me.
Huh?
I mean, yah, I get it, that's why they're there. They came to help. They WANT to help. But still, that's an odd feeling.
Second, my parents came. By parents, I mean my mom and step dad. Before anyone asks, no, my dad did not call me on the big day or anytime else for that matter. My brother, biggest shock of all, didn't so much as call or send me a card, nothing at all. That really blew me away. I tried to not dwell on it, but it stung pretty bad. Still does.
(sigh)
Anyway, my mom and step dad were here. As soon as my mom rolled in, she was asking questions, trying to figure out the game plan, the same as everyone else. I felt like I should have had a huge dry erase board or something, but finally sat down and made a list, to which my step dad gamely sat on the couch and listed things off to people, then checked them off when they were done. It was pretty cute. It made me laugh. He took his job very seriously, while cracking jokes to everyone else and keeping the mood lighter. Very nice, and I was glad someone was in charge of that damn list and people could quit asking me things every few minutes.
My mom, in her usual style, kept trying to get an itinerary. I refused her. This surprised me more than anything else, I think. I could tell she found it incredibly frustrating but she handled it well. She kept asking me about the cake, who was going to bake it, when was it going to be done, when was it to be frosted, etc, blah blah blah. I finally sat down and explained to her, "I don't care. I don't care. I cannot possibly give you a time and place and person, because I don't have any available brain for that right now, and it's just not a priority for me currently. The cake will happen, after all these other things happen. And if the cake doesn't happen, I don't care. If the cake turns out horrible, I don't care. If someone sits on it, I don't care. If we use it to stage a massive food fight I don't care. I just refuse to stress out about it, ok?"
She just blinked, looking baffled.
(Thank you, Xanax, for making that cathartic moment possible!)
Perhaps she though I was just bridal-nuts. I don't know, and it doesn't even matter. What matters is that I managed to keep myself very centered and grounded in her presence, not buying into her pressure to have things any certain way.
My mother has always had the ability to make me feel crushed and broken in nearly any circumstance, simply though her ability to program her life down to the minute, and I do NOT operate this way. I am not a steady force of energy, I am up and down and thrashing swirling current of energy. She and I are about as opposite as two people can be, in this regard. I go in bursts, and then have to stop and reground myself again. She does not understand. I find her way to do things stolidly completely alien. She wants an actual itinerary for everything. (Oh, the stories I could tell you! Another time, another time...) Itineraries make me want to shoot myself in the head, as does my mother most of the time.
This time, and perhaps for the first time, I just plain refused her. It's my wedding, and we're doing it my way.
And perhaps it shocked her to see that my way could actually work, too. I don't know, I didn't ask her what she thought. I am way too afraid she would have some speech about her thoughts and ways I could have done it better. I've learned to not ask quesions I damn well do not want answers to. Or, at least, if I am attached to the answer being the one I think it should be...
Third, my friends husband showed up. He was, and may still be, best friends with my ex, the one of much heartbreak and agonized nights two winters ago. He and I have not spoken more than ten words to each other since then. That is a terrible shame, because I love him dearly, far more than I'm sure he has any idea. I was really very hurt when he pushed me away after the breakup, considering the fact that the breakup was not my fault (I wasn't the one screwing some little whore at work!) and I was the one done wrong. But my friends husband felt like he had to take sides, and I just hoped it would eventually blow over.
Thankfully, it seems to have. Seriously, I could have just sat on his lap and pinched his cheeks. I doubt he knew how much it meant to me that he came to my wedding. Not only was it great to see him again, it added an element of healing that he may or may not have been aware of. Either way, I smiled everytime I saw him. Looking though the pictures, every picture of him makes me smile.
It's reassuring. I felt like his presence was saying, "I love you for who you are, not just because you're my friends girlfriend."
I wonder, do any of the people at my wedding know how much it meant to me? Is there any way I can possible tell them?
~happy sigh~
Fourth, a lot of the people that I was afraid would make a big stink did not. In fact, most of them didn't come, and I was wondering, is it in bad form to send people a thank you note for NOT coming?
(laughs quietly)
Fifth, I was surprised by how much went on unnoticed by Mr. Wonderful or I. I'm finding out later that quite a bit of little dramas unfolded between guests that neither of us knew anything about. Nothing big, really, but a lot of misunderstandings occurred (I'm sure my mom would tell me that a proper itinterary would have solved those things from happening, and she might mostly be right). I feel kind of blind for not having seen any of these things, and I feel a little bad that no one wanted to bring them to my attention, because I feel I could have disarmed each of them with some quickness, having access to all the information that wasn't being conveyed between parties, but such is life.
They managed to work it all amongst themselves, with only a bit of growling and extending of claws, and what gets me is that they did that for me (for us). They wanted to work it out without letting anything spoil our day, and... I am so proud. I am proud to call these people of strength my friends.
It's amazing, really, that more shit didn't go wrong. Most of my friends have never met each other, ever before. And a few of them are very strong willed (you know who you are, you rascals). The fact is, a full blown cat fight wouldn't have surprised me, and it damn near did for one brief moment.
Right before the bachelorette party, the fiancee of my now brother-in-law decided she wasn't coming to the bachelorette party, and informed me in front of everyone as the bachelorette party was walking out the door.
Let me clarify: we were all at our house, and the boys were all staying there, and the girls were all going to the maid of honors house for the night. Then, suddenly, the one girl announces that she's staying with the boys? Can you say, "Holy faux pas, Batman!"? Yes, I thought you could.
I did not take it well. I just stared at her and then walked out the door. I nearly burst into tears. I'm not sure why, really. It's not like she and I are close, or that I really wanted her there. It was more just that I took it as an insult, and a public one at that. Had she pulled me aside and told me privately that she didn't feel comfortable in coming, I might have felt differently. In truth, she was a friend of Mr. Wonderful, so I understood her wanting to be with them. She knew all of his friends, she didn't know mine. But....
Ouch.
Well. (Ahem) One of my friends was standing there, my very blunt and intimidating friend we shall call B.D. (short for the BullDog that's constantly got my back and will chew your mother fucking ass off if you cross me), who took one look at my face and loudly announced, "If it were me, I'd throw the bitch OUT," and followed me down the stairs.
Awkward silence ensued as we left, and the rest of the bachelorettes kind of scurried out the door, unsure of what happened. We all got to MOH's (Maid of Honor aka my Most Beloved Padoodles) house, and I clued them all in, where they proceeded to rag on the faux pas-er until we all felt better. After a good hour of crackers and water (my stomach was churning with the anger of being dissed), I finally let B.D. make me another drink and then it was time to get stupid.
My favorite.
All I really wanted for my bachelorette party was a time of laughter and togetherness, to have all the women I love best joined together, being giddy little girls acting ridiculous and silly. And, oooooooooh, I got what I wanted. There was much ridiculousness.
I had a few moments during that night, where I wondered which was better: getting married or having all the women I loved surrounding me. Shhh. Just don't tell anybody that I thought that, ok? It'll be our little secret.
The wedding day itself: A Total Blur.
I seem to remember something about doing stuff and getting ready and then there was this wedding thing, and a party with a bunch of laughing smiley people and some cake. Next thing I knew I was in a hotel room, the newly crowned Mrs. Wonderful with the Mr. and we were eating strawberries in bed. There was sex. There was sleep. I took a shower at some point? I don't know.
Then we came back to the house for the brunch and chilled out, I took my best friend in high school back to the airport, returned some tuxes, and I couldn't tell you what happened after that.
All in all: wedding, good. Parties, good. People, good. Marriage, good. Brain, taxed.
More brilliant blabber coming your way soon. Stay tuned.
It was a blur. Everyone tells you that it will be, and it is, they are correct. So much happened that a lot of it is meshed weirdly in my mind, like, I remember someone saying something or doing something in particular, but not WHO it was that said or did it. Strange little bits like that.
The most important part of it all that I want to share: I was totally surprised.
I have never felt such an incredible outpouring of love and support, ever, in my life.
I was surprised at how everyone acted, to me, to us, to each other. I was surprised at how I acted.
(shakes head) There's just so many things... I'll have to ramble and see if I can pull it all together somehow. It's been over a week since I wrote anything I must confess to feeling rusty.
First, as soon as people started arriving (two days early) they wanted to help. There was much to do still, no doubt. I needed help, they were more than willing, but I'll be damned if it wasn't hard as hell to delegate and tell people what to do.
Part of that is that I'm used to obsessively doing everything myself, and have difficulty letting my own projects go into other peoples hands. Another part of it that I am unused to ordering anyone to do anything, other than my son (laughs). It was a strange exercise in assertiveness. I found it completely bizarre that my home was filled with people who were simply not content to sit and relax, they were only comfortable when they were doing things for me.
Huh?
I mean, yah, I get it, that's why they're there. They came to help. They WANT to help. But still, that's an odd feeling.
Second, my parents came. By parents, I mean my mom and step dad. Before anyone asks, no, my dad did not call me on the big day or anytime else for that matter. My brother, biggest shock of all, didn't so much as call or send me a card, nothing at all. That really blew me away. I tried to not dwell on it, but it stung pretty bad. Still does.
(sigh)
Anyway, my mom and step dad were here. As soon as my mom rolled in, she was asking questions, trying to figure out the game plan, the same as everyone else. I felt like I should have had a huge dry erase board or something, but finally sat down and made a list, to which my step dad gamely sat on the couch and listed things off to people, then checked them off when they were done. It was pretty cute. It made me laugh. He took his job very seriously, while cracking jokes to everyone else and keeping the mood lighter. Very nice, and I was glad someone was in charge of that damn list and people could quit asking me things every few minutes.
My mom, in her usual style, kept trying to get an itinerary. I refused her. This surprised me more than anything else, I think. I could tell she found it incredibly frustrating but she handled it well. She kept asking me about the cake, who was going to bake it, when was it going to be done, when was it to be frosted, etc, blah blah blah. I finally sat down and explained to her, "I don't care. I don't care. I cannot possibly give you a time and place and person, because I don't have any available brain for that right now, and it's just not a priority for me currently. The cake will happen, after all these other things happen. And if the cake doesn't happen, I don't care. If the cake turns out horrible, I don't care. If someone sits on it, I don't care. If we use it to stage a massive food fight I don't care. I just refuse to stress out about it, ok?"
She just blinked, looking baffled.
(Thank you, Xanax, for making that cathartic moment possible!)
Perhaps she though I was just bridal-nuts. I don't know, and it doesn't even matter. What matters is that I managed to keep myself very centered and grounded in her presence, not buying into her pressure to have things any certain way.
My mother has always had the ability to make me feel crushed and broken in nearly any circumstance, simply though her ability to program her life down to the minute, and I do NOT operate this way. I am not a steady force of energy, I am up and down and thrashing swirling current of energy. She and I are about as opposite as two people can be, in this regard. I go in bursts, and then have to stop and reground myself again. She does not understand. I find her way to do things stolidly completely alien. She wants an actual itinerary for everything. (Oh, the stories I could tell you! Another time, another time...) Itineraries make me want to shoot myself in the head, as does my mother most of the time.
This time, and perhaps for the first time, I just plain refused her. It's my wedding, and we're doing it my way.
And perhaps it shocked her to see that my way could actually work, too. I don't know, I didn't ask her what she thought. I am way too afraid she would have some speech about her thoughts and ways I could have done it better. I've learned to not ask quesions I damn well do not want answers to. Or, at least, if I am attached to the answer being the one I think it should be...
Third, my friends husband showed up. He was, and may still be, best friends with my ex, the one of much heartbreak and agonized nights two winters ago. He and I have not spoken more than ten words to each other since then. That is a terrible shame, because I love him dearly, far more than I'm sure he has any idea. I was really very hurt when he pushed me away after the breakup, considering the fact that the breakup was not my fault (I wasn't the one screwing some little whore at work!) and I was the one done wrong. But my friends husband felt like he had to take sides, and I just hoped it would eventually blow over.
Thankfully, it seems to have. Seriously, I could have just sat on his lap and pinched his cheeks. I doubt he knew how much it meant to me that he came to my wedding. Not only was it great to see him again, it added an element of healing that he may or may not have been aware of. Either way, I smiled everytime I saw him. Looking though the pictures, every picture of him makes me smile.
It's reassuring. I felt like his presence was saying, "I love you for who you are, not just because you're my friends girlfriend."
I wonder, do any of the people at my wedding know how much it meant to me? Is there any way I can possible tell them?
~happy sigh~
Fourth, a lot of the people that I was afraid would make a big stink did not. In fact, most of them didn't come, and I was wondering, is it in bad form to send people a thank you note for NOT coming?
(laughs quietly)
Fifth, I was surprised by how much went on unnoticed by Mr. Wonderful or I. I'm finding out later that quite a bit of little dramas unfolded between guests that neither of us knew anything about. Nothing big, really, but a lot of misunderstandings occurred (I'm sure my mom would tell me that a proper itinterary would have solved those things from happening, and she might mostly be right). I feel kind of blind for not having seen any of these things, and I feel a little bad that no one wanted to bring them to my attention, because I feel I could have disarmed each of them with some quickness, having access to all the information that wasn't being conveyed between parties, but such is life.
They managed to work it all amongst themselves, with only a bit of growling and extending of claws, and what gets me is that they did that for me (for us). They wanted to work it out without letting anything spoil our day, and... I am so proud. I am proud to call these people of strength my friends.
It's amazing, really, that more shit didn't go wrong. Most of my friends have never met each other, ever before. And a few of them are very strong willed (you know who you are, you rascals). The fact is, a full blown cat fight wouldn't have surprised me, and it damn near did for one brief moment.
Right before the bachelorette party, the fiancee of my now brother-in-law decided she wasn't coming to the bachelorette party, and informed me in front of everyone as the bachelorette party was walking out the door.
Let me clarify: we were all at our house, and the boys were all staying there, and the girls were all going to the maid of honors house for the night. Then, suddenly, the one girl announces that she's staying with the boys? Can you say, "Holy faux pas, Batman!"? Yes, I thought you could.
I did not take it well. I just stared at her and then walked out the door. I nearly burst into tears. I'm not sure why, really. It's not like she and I are close, or that I really wanted her there. It was more just that I took it as an insult, and a public one at that. Had she pulled me aside and told me privately that she didn't feel comfortable in coming, I might have felt differently. In truth, she was a friend of Mr. Wonderful, so I understood her wanting to be with them. She knew all of his friends, she didn't know mine. But....
Ouch.
Well. (Ahem) One of my friends was standing there, my very blunt and intimidating friend we shall call B.D. (short for the BullDog that's constantly got my back and will chew your mother fucking ass off if you cross me), who took one look at my face and loudly announced, "If it were me, I'd throw the bitch OUT," and followed me down the stairs.
Awkward silence ensued as we left, and the rest of the bachelorettes kind of scurried out the door, unsure of what happened. We all got to MOH's (Maid of Honor aka my Most Beloved Padoodles) house, and I clued them all in, where they proceeded to rag on the faux pas-er until we all felt better. After a good hour of crackers and water (my stomach was churning with the anger of being dissed), I finally let B.D. make me another drink and then it was time to get stupid.
My favorite.
All I really wanted for my bachelorette party was a time of laughter and togetherness, to have all the women I love best joined together, being giddy little girls acting ridiculous and silly. And, oooooooooh, I got what I wanted. There was much ridiculousness.
I had a few moments during that night, where I wondered which was better: getting married or having all the women I loved surrounding me. Shhh. Just don't tell anybody that I thought that, ok? It'll be our little secret.
The wedding day itself: A Total Blur.
I seem to remember something about doing stuff and getting ready and then there was this wedding thing, and a party with a bunch of laughing smiley people and some cake. Next thing I knew I was in a hotel room, the newly crowned Mrs. Wonderful with the Mr. and we were eating strawberries in bed. There was sex. There was sleep. I took a shower at some point? I don't know.
Then we came back to the house for the brunch and chilled out, I took my best friend in high school back to the airport, returned some tuxes, and I couldn't tell you what happened after that.
All in all: wedding, good. Parties, good. People, good. Marriage, good. Brain, taxed.
More brilliant blabber coming your way soon. Stay tuned.
whirling like a top...
Great thanks to the endless genius of Asheville's singer-songwriter Chris Rosser, who has left me dancing about my house all morning to the point that I am now sitting topless in my chair, with the doors and windows thrown open, listening to the Dancing Dervish song and the rain pouring down outside.You are magical, my friend. I miss you guys...
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Friday, November 18, 2005
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Friday, November 11, 2005
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
wow
Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore.
And let's all thank His Noodley Appendage we're not. Thank you, Oh Benevolent One, amen.
And let's all thank His Noodley Appendage we're not. Thank you, Oh Benevolent One, amen.
Monday, November 07, 2005
update
Ok, turkeys. I'm trying out the comment moderation method instead of word verification, so when you write a comment it won't show until I ok it. It could take awhile, but I know some of you are going nuts (Mad Monkey, I'm looking at you) with the word verification, so we'll give this a whirl.
indeed.
"If you wish to understand yourself, you must succeed in doing so in the midst of all kinds of confusions and upsets. Don't make the mistake of sitting dead in the cold ashes of a withered tree."
-Emyo
-Emyo
Saturday, November 05, 2005
hot pussy
Really, now. You people are just sick.
I hope those cats at least got some good drugs for that gig. Sheesh.
It makes Jack Kevorkian's methods seem downright archaic.
(I used to live near him, by the way. My family and I all supported him, and do still. It was a common joke to give someone a "Kevorkian Gift Certificate" as a prank.)
Friday, November 04, 2005
a song of healing
"From where you come
as you have grown
the pain you've seen
it need not be your own
though it cuts you deep
and hits you hard
from where you come
isn't what you are..."
Jimmy Landry, "From Where You Come"
ps) Jimmy, I love you.
venting
You wanna know what's awesome about weddings? The stess! Yes, the stress is fucking awesome! That good old feeling that your skin is trying to crawl off your fucking body, that's the good stuff right there, boy I'm tellin ya! I couldn't be more overjoyed if someone stuck a fucking hatpin in my ass every 5 seconds, nosirreebob!
disassociation and The Fact Box
(huge heaving sigh)
Where to begin...
The shrink and I have been talking about, well, everything. Particularly we've been discussing my ability/dysfunction to disassociate. As I called it, The Fact Box. As in, bad things happen, I disassemble the components of the experience into basic facts, file it away in The Fact Box, and feel little to nothing about it.
A coping mechanism, yes, but not a healthy one, I gather. Leads to schizophrenia, that sort of thing. No, thank you.
I tell her that writing is my way of pulling the facts out and usually it's not until I am actually writing them that I feel them. Sometimes not even then. Sometimes I write about something and I read it and feel disjointed, like, "This isn't my life, is it?"
Disassociation.
I can even write very emotionally about something, but the emotion that comes out is slight compared to what is stored. As if the emotion that you, the reader, can see is a mere hairline crack in the dam. The emotion that comes with the stories is sometimes just the tiny surface of the thing.
And I am afraid.
I am afraid of the powerful dark currents of rage that exist behind those walls. I am afraid to be angry. I don't "do" anger well.
"Why?" my shrink asked. "The amount of rage I have simmering has been there, poisonous and growing, for years," I told her, "I'm afraid of what's under it."
Hmmm. She asked when I could remember the disassociation starting. Was it the rape? Oh, no, I told her, way before that. As far back as I can remember.
She looked at me. I looked at her. The unspoken thing hung in the air.
"Do you think something happened before that, then? Something you're blocking out?" she asked.
I nodded. I told her, "I've always been afraid of that."
I told her how I went to a psychic one time who told me that there was a male figure of my family, or close, who had sexually abused me as a child. I told him, flat out, "I don't remember that." He looked at me very matter of fact and said, "Regardless, it's there."
My shrink asked, "Did you think that was true before the psychic told you that?"
I nodded. Yes. I've always been afraid something is lurking back there.
~long pause~
The more I think about it, the more it seems like there is an image beneath the surface. It's like looking into a dark lake, and seeing the image of something terrible beneath the surface, and instinctively looking away.
I mean, shit, if there's a monster in the lake, you don't stick your fucking head under the water and ask if it would like a cup of tea, you know? A fine how do you do, perhaps we should get to know each other more intimately, what horrible things can you tell me? Would you like a scone with that heart shattering memory you've just served up? Why, thank you. The taste of heartache is just delicious. Yum yum.
So instead of outright looking, I'm doing what I would consider more of a peeking over my shoulder technique. Thinking of things in childhood that don't add up. Odd things, even...
...like how I can't sleep naked (unless sheets are covering me)- even in blistering heat, I have to have my torso covered. I mean, I HAVE to.
I've had sensations of being choked as far back as I can remember. There are times, even still, when I cannot lean back in a chair or lay back in a bed without covering my neck with soft things. I still sleep with my teddy bear, some nights. I use it to cover my neck. No shit.
I was always terrified of the bathroom night light. It was a reddish orange color, and I would have nightmares about horrible creatures trapping me in there, or pulling me in. I have gone out of my way to buy alarm clocks that light up that pleasant blue green color, just because of that. Even now.
I was afraid of vampires as a small girl. Like, I would lay in bed and be terrified of a hovering tall shape. I wasn't afraid of teeth, or any of the vampire stuff in particular, I just remember being afraid of that image of something big hovering at the end of my bed. Danger.
Could it be my dad? He tried to kill himself and my mom divorced him when I was young. It would explain a lot- him never dating, him being distant, all kinds of weird shit. I mean, he was a total drunk for awhile there- he could have done something he didn't remember, or my mom caught him doing, I don't know.
Would my mom keep something like that from me? Oh yes. No doubt in my mind at all about that.
I remember my Grandma telling me something odd when I was nineteen. She and I were discussing my enrollment in the school of hard knocks, and the general shitty hand I'd been dealt in life, and I remember her saying something to me about my inability to deal with things. She said, "It's like you've got something....(she tapped the back of her head)...repressed..." and just gave me this long hard look. It was such a powerful moment that I dismissed it immediately (into The Fact Box) because it freaked me out.
Do they know something I don't?
Should I ask?
Would they tell me?
I remember when my mom and grandma came to visit me in Asheville two years ago, and I was asking my mom about some strange memories I had as a kid, about my dad. I remember how the air itself changed in the room, a tension, as I could feel my grandma tense up and pay total attention, although she tried to make it seem like she wasn't.
The memory was of my dad trying to kill himself, and my mom told me about it, and said she was surprised I remembered that. I was surprised she never fucking mentioned it before! Hello? Kind of a big detail to overlook, don't you think? What else has gone unmentioned?
All that said, I do know of three distinct times I have been molested. Once was when I was younger, the other two times were around the age of eighteen. I'll get to those stories...but I don't think that's it. There's something else.
I do seem to have been born as a sexual predator magnet, don't I?
(sits staring at The Fact Box)
Where to begin...
The shrink and I have been talking about, well, everything. Particularly we've been discussing my ability/dysfunction to disassociate. As I called it, The Fact Box. As in, bad things happen, I disassemble the components of the experience into basic facts, file it away in The Fact Box, and feel little to nothing about it.
A coping mechanism, yes, but not a healthy one, I gather. Leads to schizophrenia, that sort of thing. No, thank you.
I tell her that writing is my way of pulling the facts out and usually it's not until I am actually writing them that I feel them. Sometimes not even then. Sometimes I write about something and I read it and feel disjointed, like, "This isn't my life, is it?"
Disassociation.
I can even write very emotionally about something, but the emotion that comes out is slight compared to what is stored. As if the emotion that you, the reader, can see is a mere hairline crack in the dam. The emotion that comes with the stories is sometimes just the tiny surface of the thing.
And I am afraid.
I am afraid of the powerful dark currents of rage that exist behind those walls. I am afraid to be angry. I don't "do" anger well.
"Why?" my shrink asked. "The amount of rage I have simmering has been there, poisonous and growing, for years," I told her, "I'm afraid of what's under it."
Hmmm. She asked when I could remember the disassociation starting. Was it the rape? Oh, no, I told her, way before that. As far back as I can remember.
She looked at me. I looked at her. The unspoken thing hung in the air.
"Do you think something happened before that, then? Something you're blocking out?" she asked.
I nodded. I told her, "I've always been afraid of that."
I told her how I went to a psychic one time who told me that there was a male figure of my family, or close, who had sexually abused me as a child. I told him, flat out, "I don't remember that." He looked at me very matter of fact and said, "Regardless, it's there."
My shrink asked, "Did you think that was true before the psychic told you that?"
I nodded. Yes. I've always been afraid something is lurking back there.
~long pause~
The more I think about it, the more it seems like there is an image beneath the surface. It's like looking into a dark lake, and seeing the image of something terrible beneath the surface, and instinctively looking away.
I mean, shit, if there's a monster in the lake, you don't stick your fucking head under the water and ask if it would like a cup of tea, you know? A fine how do you do, perhaps we should get to know each other more intimately, what horrible things can you tell me? Would you like a scone with that heart shattering memory you've just served up? Why, thank you. The taste of heartache is just delicious. Yum yum.
So instead of outright looking, I'm doing what I would consider more of a peeking over my shoulder technique. Thinking of things in childhood that don't add up. Odd things, even...
...like how I can't sleep naked (unless sheets are covering me)- even in blistering heat, I have to have my torso covered. I mean, I HAVE to.
I've had sensations of being choked as far back as I can remember. There are times, even still, when I cannot lean back in a chair or lay back in a bed without covering my neck with soft things. I still sleep with my teddy bear, some nights. I use it to cover my neck. No shit.
I was always terrified of the bathroom night light. It was a reddish orange color, and I would have nightmares about horrible creatures trapping me in there, or pulling me in. I have gone out of my way to buy alarm clocks that light up that pleasant blue green color, just because of that. Even now.
I was afraid of vampires as a small girl. Like, I would lay in bed and be terrified of a hovering tall shape. I wasn't afraid of teeth, or any of the vampire stuff in particular, I just remember being afraid of that image of something big hovering at the end of my bed. Danger.
Could it be my dad? He tried to kill himself and my mom divorced him when I was young. It would explain a lot- him never dating, him being distant, all kinds of weird shit. I mean, he was a total drunk for awhile there- he could have done something he didn't remember, or my mom caught him doing, I don't know.
Would my mom keep something like that from me? Oh yes. No doubt in my mind at all about that.
I remember my Grandma telling me something odd when I was nineteen. She and I were discussing my enrollment in the school of hard knocks, and the general shitty hand I'd been dealt in life, and I remember her saying something to me about my inability to deal with things. She said, "It's like you've got something....(she tapped the back of her head)...repressed..." and just gave me this long hard look. It was such a powerful moment that I dismissed it immediately (into The Fact Box) because it freaked me out.
Do they know something I don't?
Should I ask?
Would they tell me?
I remember when my mom and grandma came to visit me in Asheville two years ago, and I was asking my mom about some strange memories I had as a kid, about my dad. I remember how the air itself changed in the room, a tension, as I could feel my grandma tense up and pay total attention, although she tried to make it seem like she wasn't.
The memory was of my dad trying to kill himself, and my mom told me about it, and said she was surprised I remembered that. I was surprised she never fucking mentioned it before! Hello? Kind of a big detail to overlook, don't you think? What else has gone unmentioned?
All that said, I do know of three distinct times I have been molested. Once was when I was younger, the other two times were around the age of eighteen. I'll get to those stories...but I don't think that's it. There's something else.
I do seem to have been born as a sexual predator magnet, don't I?
(sits staring at The Fact Box)
me and my crazy
I know....it's been awhile since I've posted anything directly related to my anxiety.
I assume that's due in large part to the doctors putting me on Xanax.
I have often wondered how "normal" people do this wedding stuff. Then again, I wonder how they do a lot of things, like, leave their houses for example...not scream when the phone rings suddenly...you know, normal stuff.
But this wedding business is just nuts.
I've gotten to the point now where I'm not counting down the days in anxiety of Will I Finish It All In Time, now it's become a countdown of I See The Light On The Horizon And It's Called The Wedding Is Over. I think that's when the moon turns into honey or some weird custom....(snort)
Bad jokes aside, my anxiety is climbing still. I have these crazy dreams lately, just a mad jumble of stuff, that leave me feeling more than glad to get up. I don't feel rested, particularly, just happy to not be dreaming. I toss, I turn, the usual.
This is ON the sleeping meds they have me on. I would be so totally fucked without modern psychiatry. That's really the tweaked out point I'm trying to make, here.
Early this morning someone honked their car horn somewhere off in the parking lot. It wasn't loud, or I should say, it wasn't close. (I'm sure it was loud if you had your head in the engine block.) It didn't wake up Mr. Wonderful. No. What woke him up was me sitting bolt upright in bed, with a rush of adrenaline. He fell back asleep. I did not.
A freaking car horn. Dammit.
What did I do? I got up, groaned in symphony with my muscles who seemed to have all spent the night jostling for motionless space somewhere in a body that was tossing and turning, and started cleaning the bathroom floor.
*blinks, slowly*
Yes. My neurotic ass woke up, and started cleaning the bathroom floor, on hands and knees.
Why?
Because it's there. I don't fucking know. I've been talking to my shrink about disassociation, and I had that lightbulb over my head moment as soon as I was nearly done. "Oh!" my brain suddenly says, "we're on the floor. This is crazy, did you know?" it asks me in all earnestness.
I sigh. "Yah. This does look pretty weird..." I imagine Jack suddenly waking up and walking around the corner, and the startled silence that would greet me. The pause... the "ummmmm" that would escape his lips, and then, "Baby, are you ok? Have you taken your medication yet....?"
A little while later on we got into a nice little tiff about wedding details and I'm just all out of sorts today.
What better than to write disturbing emotional vomit? Indeed. I shall.
I'm off....
I assume that's due in large part to the doctors putting me on Xanax.
I have often wondered how "normal" people do this wedding stuff. Then again, I wonder how they do a lot of things, like, leave their houses for example...not scream when the phone rings suddenly...you know, normal stuff.
But this wedding business is just nuts.
I've gotten to the point now where I'm not counting down the days in anxiety of Will I Finish It All In Time, now it's become a countdown of I See The Light On The Horizon And It's Called The Wedding Is Over. I think that's when the moon turns into honey or some weird custom....(snort)
Bad jokes aside, my anxiety is climbing still. I have these crazy dreams lately, just a mad jumble of stuff, that leave me feeling more than glad to get up. I don't feel rested, particularly, just happy to not be dreaming. I toss, I turn, the usual.
This is ON the sleeping meds they have me on. I would be so totally fucked without modern psychiatry. That's really the tweaked out point I'm trying to make, here.
Early this morning someone honked their car horn somewhere off in the parking lot. It wasn't loud, or I should say, it wasn't close. (I'm sure it was loud if you had your head in the engine block.) It didn't wake up Mr. Wonderful. No. What woke him up was me sitting bolt upright in bed, with a rush of adrenaline. He fell back asleep. I did not.
A freaking car horn. Dammit.
What did I do? I got up, groaned in symphony with my muscles who seemed to have all spent the night jostling for motionless space somewhere in a body that was tossing and turning, and started cleaning the bathroom floor.
*blinks, slowly*
Yes. My neurotic ass woke up, and started cleaning the bathroom floor, on hands and knees.
Why?
Because it's there. I don't fucking know. I've been talking to my shrink about disassociation, and I had that lightbulb over my head moment as soon as I was nearly done. "Oh!" my brain suddenly says, "we're on the floor. This is crazy, did you know?" it asks me in all earnestness.
I sigh. "Yah. This does look pretty weird..." I imagine Jack suddenly waking up and walking around the corner, and the startled silence that would greet me. The pause... the "ummmmm" that would escape his lips, and then, "Baby, are you ok? Have you taken your medication yet....?"
A little while later on we got into a nice little tiff about wedding details and I'm just all out of sorts today.
What better than to write disturbing emotional vomit? Indeed. I shall.
I'm off....
Thursday, November 03, 2005
birds of a feather
I was reading an interesting blog of note over at 2Blowhards, where Donald is pondering the neighborhood pigeon feeder. It reminded me of my post about bird poles, and also of the many eccentric people out there who are waving their freak flags high.
Asheville was rampant with various freak flags of varying natures. One of my favorites was the house that had a chalkboard in their front yard. They always had some totally bizarre thing written on it, something that always seemed a little cryptic, or maybe an inside joke, I never could tell. (I had pictures from old posts, but they seem to have been eaten by the blogosphere. Sad.)
I loved their eccentricity. The fact that each day, some crazy person would walk outside and write some wack ass shit on that board, and I could never figure out what it meant, but damn it all if I didn't drive out of my way every day just to see what it said. I came to love the mystery itself. I probably would have been disappointed to find out what they meant, what if it was just something horribly mundane?
Instead, I pictured them being strange genius people, capable of writing things that were so damn brilliant only they could decipher it. Or schizophrenically poetic. Whatever. I loved them for it, albeit from afar.
There are few things I adore more than a strange sense of humor. Bordering on senseless, until you take the time to decipher the joke. Dry wit. Things that make you think. Anything, in short, causing introspection.
Of course.
dear modeling industry,
I want to discuss your weight. You know, that stuff you carry around with you. The stuff you throw around, despise, calculate, judge, ignore, whatever.
Mad Monkey has been talking about it recently, and this morning I got some pictures from a friend who has lost a lot of weight.
It's not good.
I mean, really. I know with her job she is required to look the way she does (she does modeling) but she was WAY the fuck cuter a little while ago. I set the pictures side by side in comparison. Yeesh.
A few months ago she was adorable, ravishing, (dare I say?) downright fuckable.
Now she looks harsh and foreboding, beautiful, but in a cold and brittle way.
~sigh~
It makes me sad.
And so, I would like to give the modeling industry at large a big old
in general.
Let me state, also, that I was offered a modeling career about 7 years ago. They told me I would do great, but would be offered a lot more work if I would just lose 10 or 15 pounds.
I am 5'10". At the time, I weighed 127 pounds. My hip bones jutted out as it was.
No thanks, I said. I have enough complexes as it is, and I sure as hell don't need any more. I'd rather be poor.
There simply is no way that the amount of money they could give me would equal the amount of damage they would do to my psyche. Even as a poor single mother, I knew that.
So, fuck it. I eat. I am happier with my fluff than I would be trying to maintain the look of Skeletor.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
poignant for all the emotional vomiting of late
I'm not big on posting lyrics to songs, but I have to make an exception. I heard this song while driving home today and as soon as it came on I had one of bright flashing epiphany moments, like, "Listen, dumbass! It's the theme song to most of your life!"
I belted it out.
"Cryin' on the corner
Waitin' in the rain
I swear I'll never
Ever wait again
You gave me your word
But words for you are lies
Darlin' in my wildest dreams
I never thought I'd go, ooh-ooh
But it's time to let you know
Ooh-ooh-ooh
I'm gonna harden my heart
I'm gonna swallow my tears
I'm gonna turn and leave you here
All of my life
I've been waitin' in the rain
I've been waiting for a feeling
That never, ever came
It feels so close
But always disappears
Darlin', in your wildest dreams
You never had a clue, ooh-ooh
But it's time you got the news
I'm gonna harden my heart
I'm gonna swallow my tears
I'm gonna turn and leave you here
Darlin' in my wildest dreams
I never thought I'd go
But it's time to let you know
Ooh-ooh-ooh
I'm gonna harden my heart
I'm gonna swallow my tears
I'm gonna turn and leave you here
I'm gonna harden my heart
I'm gonna swallow my tears
I'm gonna harden my heart
I'm gonna swallow my tears
Harden my heart
I'm gonna swallow my tears
No, oh, oh, oh
Harden my heart
I'm gonna harden my heart
I'm gonna swallow my tears
I'm gonna harden my heart"
Quarterflash, Harden My Heart
I belted it out.
"Cryin' on the corner
Waitin' in the rain
I swear I'll never
Ever wait again
You gave me your word
But words for you are lies
Darlin' in my wildest dreams
I never thought I'd go, ooh-ooh
But it's time to let you know
Ooh-ooh-ooh
I'm gonna harden my heart
I'm gonna swallow my tears
I'm gonna turn and leave you here
All of my life
I've been waitin' in the rain
I've been waiting for a feeling
That never, ever came
It feels so close
But always disappears
Darlin', in your wildest dreams
You never had a clue, ooh-ooh
But it's time you got the news
I'm gonna harden my heart
I'm gonna swallow my tears
I'm gonna turn and leave you here
Darlin' in my wildest dreams
I never thought I'd go
But it's time to let you know
Ooh-ooh-ooh
I'm gonna harden my heart
I'm gonna swallow my tears
I'm gonna turn and leave you here
I'm gonna harden my heart
I'm gonna swallow my tears
I'm gonna harden my heart
I'm gonna swallow my tears
Harden my heart
I'm gonna swallow my tears
No, oh, oh, oh
Harden my heart
I'm gonna harden my heart
I'm gonna swallow my tears
I'm gonna harden my heart"
Quarterflash, Harden My Heart
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
tick tock goes the wedding clock...
Every girl dreams about her wedding. Someday my prince will come, happily ever after, yadda yadda yadda.
I am no exception.
And now that we are into the final countdown until the wedding, I catch myself wondering, "What in the hell inspired me to put myself through this?"
Oh, yes. Fantasy.
Well, so it will be. I didn't go to prom. I wasn't about to miss out and elope, too. I am going to have my day in the sun (or rain) and be a fairy fucking princess people.
And I shall be glorious.
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