So news first... for the last two decades or so, doctors have marveled at how my heart murmurs and wrote orders for echocardiograms which I neglected to fulfill... and if they gave me the paper copy, I would throw it in the nearest receptacle after leaving the office. My heart's like every other muscle in my body, and it's gonna break just like the rest of them have done or will do. It will do what it wants, and I will not be able to stop it. The latest doctor I've seen marveled at it on my first visit, and we discussed a few visits later... What happens after I get the echo? And since I've no intention of prolonging this life through the means my parents have used to prolong theirs, it's always seemed pointless to me to bother with it. If there's not a pill I can take to make it bearable, why muck with it? 

But this year... the middle of my back been's causing greater pain that normal... kinda near where my lungs are... and my depression's gotten worse, and my meds don't work quite as well as they used to do, and I'm too hopeless these days. Almost as bad as I was four years ago. Four years ago I was in fuck it mode. I was waiting on the good Lord to take me, assuming I was worthy of the rescue. Knowing my history, I'm more likely bound to be raging at the surface or sinking in the abyss of the river Styx. And maybe if I could fix my heart to doctors' best ability, maybe that'll alleviate the depression and the pain in my back. It's in my legs, too. It's basically everywhere. It makes me tired. 

This doctor let me listen to my heart, and then he let me listen to his. Mine sounds pretty bad, yall. Not at all what it should sound like. Not a clean thump thump but a whoosh whoosh whoosh, like the sound water makes when it is pushed through a flapping door. And the thump thump is buried underneath that. I can hear it in my head at night as I'm trying to sleep. He said mine's something like a three or four. I'm thinking of cancer stages... three or four can't be good.

I'm housesitting for a friend. She introduced me to another friend who lives on her street, and that woman asked me to care for her cat, Roxy. I housesat for another friend before sitting for this one, and the cat's needs overlapped. 

I'm barely hanging on to sanity right now. I've quit drinking because the doctor prescribed new medicine to alleviate the rage and firmly ordered me to stop drinking.

In the past few years, I've come to know that I would've been a horrible teacher, and know I'm seeing I would've been a much worse mother. And I can't tend house worth a damn because I'm too concerned with myself and nothing else.

The cat made a mess on the carpet. I cleaned it up but failed to clean out the machine after... mostly because I was too afraid of breaking it. I suspect she'll never ask me to care for her cat again. I can tell you, when I went into the house today to find it still not there (I'd asked her if I could use it the day before), I texted see if I could borrow the cleaner to clean up the piss on the rug of the friend who introduced me to the cat... she texted me: I think I don’t actually want all of everyone’s pet poopoo in it. I’m sorry. It’s hard enough for me to clean it out after cleaning up Roxys messes. The day before she'd agreed to let me borrow it but bring it back so they could use it if the cat made a mess. But today, I got that text. So either the folks who are now watching their cat used it to clean up a mess one of their animals had made in their home OR they'd complained to this woman that I'd left it foul. 

So the three dogs here... they exhaust me, and I'm feeling more like I should ask this friend to find someone else to watch them in the future because I'm doing such a lousy job of it. These are puppies. Can you imagine how shitty I'd be with children??

All these dreams I've had... they die ugly deaths... one by one. 

And so now... now, I very much would love to be that hermit.

When I Was a Child...

That Scripture from Matthew or wherever... it doesn't matter, does it? Yall know what it says... I spoke like a child... 

I speak like a child all the time. Most of the time it's because I am so stinking happy I can't control it. Like I can't control it when I'm mad or sad or bad. I take drugs for that... lots of them actually. So the gleeful gal or the banshee... whichever has the reins... you can only see a small percentage of the giddy or the gorey. On a whim last Saturday, I cut my hair OFF (again)--something I'd not done in almost twenty years. I did it because when I looked in the mirror, I felt like a haggard, lonely woman, and the feeling did not sit well with me... but what finally drove me to do it was the vision that in five years or so my hair could be barely there on the top of my head and straggly threads on the back and sides... and that vision made me feel SO. MUCH. UGLIER. And yes, I know... I'm made in Christ's image, and it's easy to run those words through my head, but as they do so, it's in a tone that's mocking and demented... because I go outside and the words seem to hold no value. And yes, I know that's my faith wavering. I know it.

Once upon a time I worked at a bookstore, and one of its managers told me she thought of me as fearless. When I asked her why she'd chosen that word, she said something to the effect of that no matter how much I struggle when out and about in my days, I get up and go out, and that is fearless.

I do it because I have to do it. Just like when during my school days, and this is something my mother marvels at still, I never said I don't want to go or asked if I could stay home. Yall. My father was the superintendent. OF. COURSE. Like I COULD ask that. Like they'd let me stay home.

We're doing Priscilla Shirer's Elijah study at church. It's a good one--hard-hitting, as a study should be. I hadn't worked on it this past week. One of the questions we addressed today (NOT phrased as it should be because my book's in my car, and I'm upstairs in my room and too lazy to get it because I know yall'll get the point) what's something you've wanted and not gotten? I've wanted requited, romantic love, independence from my parents, and financial stability. I've never known these things. And reading them, I felt like a child. Seeing this in print just drives the hurt in a little bit deeper... and it's been a hurt that's lasted for the better part of three decades. I bent my head and allowed myself to feel that hurt but reined it in just before tears fell. And I carried myself through that study well enough this morning. I'm always SO happy to go to study because there are SO many women there whom I love and take pleasure in spending time with them. But the pleasure and the joy are sucked out like a vacuum at the conclusion... the room gets grayer and grayer and grows more and more silent... and I am there taking out the trash. Just before the last people left, I'd overheard some who lead the ministry talk about needing someone to lead the giving tree and thought, "THAT. I can totally rock that." So eager was I to help, so pleased that I could use my gifts for good, I shouted, "I'll help." Like a first grader eager to help her teacher. Childish. 

Moments before this, I'd marveled at how much more youthful I felt because of this haircut. I feel like I'm ten years younger. At least.

And then the people left... and all the things whammied me. The immaturity of my life--the lack of a spouse, the lack of children, the lack of a romantic relationship, the lack of independence, the lack of funds in my account, the lack of being able to lead when I so often feel called to do so. Who would put a child in charge? That's crazy right? All these women, they have the husbands, the children, the independence (though I'm sure most would say they don't... because of the husbands and the children), the funds in their accounts, the ability to lead (and don't tell me yall don't, because I know danged well who rules those houses).

I cried like a little girl, yall. I walked into that sanctuary, sanitized my hands and let my fingers feel the piano keys played earlier that morning by a gifted man as we'd worshipped. There is so much music in me, and yet, I lack the ability to play it--the hand-width, coordination and strength. I prayed: The highs are so high, Lord, and the lows are so low. And it's hard to dance with the devil on my back, but I do not have the strength to shake him. You do, though. So please, God, get him off me.

My throat hurts. It started, interestingly enough, not long before I joined in a Bible Study Fellowship study of Romans. There's some line in there, something like, Your throat is an open grave.

I try to sing in church, but my throat REALLY hurts after the second song or so. So I sit, and let the music swirl around me... and then I start thinking the devil's sat me down, so I force myself back up and I tell myself to sing anyway. But it hurts, and singing was the thing that saved me in my childhood. Always. I'd walk the streets of my neighborhood and sing Bette Midler's The Rose... and the song was always a prayer, and I had such confidence that in the winter I would know love. And yall, when I'd sing that song, it was always with the love of a good man in mind. I needed to sing it because the boys I knew were so unbearably cruel. The men I've known have been.

Winter's never come, though.

I have buried myself. I have boxed myself in. Stunted my growth.

Yall might think it's easy for me to unload. It's not. I might have shared about my physical aches... it's easy for me to complain about those, yall, because they HURT and are so plentiful that I can't help myself. But once upon a time I was a champion internalizer like my brothers, like my parents. And about five years after I started blogging, I began to use this site as a sort of therapy. I'd type. Lots. And it would help. Hardly anyone I knew read it, and that's okay. That was PERFECT because I didn't feel as though I burdened anyone with any of it. 

I didn't start unloading the baggage upon my friends until about four years ago or so. And there is such guilt and shame in me for burdening them. Such hatred because I cannot carry my cross with grace like all the others do. And I lean heavily on the words they've said back to me... but they are words. And I, like any writer, know words can be like vapor.

Howdy!

I'm here today because I cannot post on my Wordpress site because I haven't been able to pay the webhosting stuff... something like two hundred bucks, which I don't have because I'm a child when it comes to managing money.

I lost one of my part-time gigs at the end of May. The other's hours would've been bumped up to about thirty-five a week, which is more than I've worked in at one job in five years... but the owner keeps a black Lab mix on the premises, and while I can hold my own around other dogs (friendly reminder, I'm pathetically allergic to pretty much everything), this dog makes me vomit so I spent May and June trying to find other work, and those searches proved more promising that in the past, which gave me hope... which was crushed, and every time it was I sunk a lot deeper into depression. At the end of June I gave up. So I'm working at the shop with the dog. If you're the praying sort, PLEASE put some up for me that I can work this job through December because I gave the man my word I would.

Also pray that I can get a better grip on my finances.

My life feels as though it's coming off the rails. Pray for better highway vision. Thank you.

Icarus

I've written about this before. April fifteenth is the day he'd asked me to be his girl. April sixteenth is the day he broke my heart. April seventeenth would've been an anniversary of sorts. April nineteenth is the last day I saw him. And these damned numbers are EVERYWHERE. I really hate it when it they're tied to the month, too. I LOATHE the coincidence. I hate how desperate I've become to lessen its significance. How futile those attempts have been.

Eighteen years ago yesterday I went on the last date with the only man I've ever loved--three days after he'd broken my heart; nine days before he'd crushed it. Would that I could know love. Would that a man could love me.

I lived in San Antonio and worked as the merchandise supervisor at Borders. It was one of those rare Fridays that I didn't have to close--not sure how that happened, actually. He'd called me the night before to make sure we were still on. We went to a Greek restaurant.

And then we went to Amy's at Quarry Market for ice cream. And then he drove me by his parents' house (again)... because he wanted me to meet his folks, and I was willing, but he was afraid to introduce me... and then we went back to his place, only this time I didn't stay for awhile.

But I didn't leave right away. I stood in the parking lot, smoked a cigarette. Decided I wanted a Dr. Pepper. He kept a stash in the refrigerator for me, even though he didn't drink them. He smiled, was happy to see that I'd come back, had thought I'd changed my mind. But I hadn't. I didn't come in, made him get a can out of the fridge for me. That's the last time I saw him.

The strongest memory from that day: when I'd gotten to his apartment, I'd told him I wasn't touching him. He had a goldfish named Icarus. I'd set my things on the counter beside the bowl. We were getting ready to go, and I'd stopped to get my stuff and was staring at the fish, floating the water. I thought of Greek mythology...

I thought, You've flown too close to the sun, Jennifer. And right then, he stood behind me, inches away. If I'd leaned back a fraction, we would've been touching. Those chills you get? They were a flood from head to toe, and I'd wondered if he felt them, and if he did, why they didn't matter.

I'd wanted to weep. Wanted to say I can't do this and leave. I should've. But I tried to play it cool, like a goddamned fool.

things can only get better

i haven't been to church in a long time. a friend talked me into going saturday. the readings spoke to me. the songs did. i bought some tamales afterward. two batches.

i boiled them both. the first batch came out just fine. i scarfed those babies down. they were divine.

the second one? i cooked them last night. i accidentally punctured the bag. they were a soggy mess. i ate them anyway.

today i got fired. from a job i loved. from a place i had loved working. that's the first time in my life i've been able to say that. that i loved working somewhere.

i'm drinking dos equis. by myself. and there's a storm brewing. please god, let the days get better soon.

the demons... the dreams i drown

hey now, take your change.

that's one of the first lines in u2's stay.

the first memory that comes to mind when i hear this song is the drive from montrose to grand junction to visit my mother's family after my brother died. i plug in pretty much the moment we pull out of the driveway until we dump our bags wherever we're staying -- it's how i deal with being in a box, whether it's my father's explorer or the shuttle from the parking lot to the airport or cramped in the window or middle seat on a flight (though to be honest, i've been pretty fortunate with the aisle seat lottery lately). i plug in to keep from having an anxiety attack. my mom's complained about this on more than one occasion. she would prefer that i be communicative and attentive. i'd prefer to keep my sanity. i win. anyway... i remember hearing this song on that trek, and it suited my mood then. i was twenty-nine. the first chords put me back in that car, riding behind my father, looking out at a gloomy colorado.

then there's that line. take your change. and i'm not in colorado anymore. i'm in san marcos. seven years younger. stupid, crazy in love with a boy we'll call elliot. not a good man. not by any means. but he'd impressed me with his talent and confidence and wit and eyes -- he has black eyes, like my grandmother's. the first time my grandfather saw her, all he could see of her was her eyes, and he fell hard. the first time i saw elliot, i couldn't help myself. i'm a sucker for pretty eyes and mad skills. the boy could play guitar better than anyone i knew. yeah. musician. i'm an idiot. i know. everybody else did, too. it was laughable in my circle of friends-who-weren't-friends that i liked him. so san marcos. hasting's entertainment -- a video and music store. i'd gone to visit one of those friends-not-friends -- we'll call him ben -- and his girlfriend. they'd insisted on watching caddyshack because i'd never seen it. so we took my car. i left my cigarettes at his apartment because he didn't like me smoking. we were standing in line to pay for the rental. val kilmer was on the cover of premier magazine for batman forever. i'd said something about that. something about him being hot.

ben laughed and said i thought elliot was the love of your life. 

i could've shrugged it off, except ben and i had gone to school together from fifth to eighth grade, and in junior high, when i'd asked him to sign my yearbook, he'd written to the love doctor...  he and the rest of my peers were relentless then, always making fun of how ugly i was. the moment he said that, i was reminded of decades before. i started laughing to keep from crying.

the cashier was holding out the change she'd made. i couldn't move. ben said get your change, jenn.

i said i realize you've never seen me upset so you don't know how i get when i'm that way, so i'll tell you: i start laughing hysterically, and i get incredibly sarcastic, and in case you haven't figured it out yet, i'm pissed. and i stormed out. i would've left them there. i would've gotten back in my car and made the three hour trek back to my solitary apartment in houston. but i let him drive my car, and he had the keys. i couldn't smoke a cigarette. had to wait until we got back to his apartment. i sat in the rear, behind the passenger seat, as far away from him as i could, pressed into the side. i could hear his girlfriend whisper, why'd you say that? i could see him shake his head and mutter i don't know. when we got back to his apartment, i snatched my cigarettes and went walking around the complex until the tears got the best of me, and i collapsed on some sidewalk. he found me. he apologized. we watched caddyshack. i remember chomping on tums like they were candy. i remember him watching me, worried.

so i'm reminded when i hear this song of how awful i am at loving. how careless. how thoughtless. and selfish.

the other day my father and i took a drive after dinner through some of the neighborhoods. it's easier for me to ride in a car when i'm in the front. i can see out more easily. i don't feel quite so claustrophobic. we had a nice chat. i enjoyed the time with him. but this one comment he'd made stuck with me. he said that i seemed less angry lately, more able to go with the flow, that i haven't been fighting as much. he didn't know if it was because of the medicine i'm taking or what, but he liked that i seemed happier.

i'm not fighting at all now. i wake up. i go about my day, and when it's over, i crawl into bed. rinse. repeat.

stay with the demons you drown...

i have given up. people said you've to let go of things, to give up the plans you have for yourself so that the plans god has in store for you can come to be. i'm not writing. i go to work. i come home. i play on the computer. i eat. i get ready for bed. i pop my pills. i sleep. rinse. repeat.

and it's not just my demons i drown now, but my dreams, too.

the good fight

the other day a friend asked me to help her tweak an essay she'd been asked to write for her work. it was about repainting some metal planters, about how the task had enabled her to see that sometimes we are like those planters, weathered and rusted by life, and how when we let him, god can give us fresh coats of paint, restore our spirits.

i've mentioned that bible study in which i'm taking part before. in romans four, paul talks about circumcision. when i'd first read it, i thought that doesn't apply to me. but then in the lecture, our group leader talked about how our hearts need to be circumcised, that the scar tissue makes it difficult to live like god had intended us. in romans three, paul says their throats are open graves... their mouths are full of cursing and bitterness... ruin and misery mark their ways.

these words have haunted me ever since. my voice will be the cause of my death. somehow. morbid, right?

today a woman came to ship something to a friend. she had shoulder-length, glossy, straight black hair, wore black-rimmed glasses, a black blouse with yellow details (i wish i could tell you what they were... flowers, maybe? but that doesn't sound right) forming vertical stripes about an inch apart, bell sleeves, black slacks. she was blessed with beautiful features: good skin; symmetry; wide, dark eyes. her face was flawless. she was talking with my boss about how she'd just come from an interview, that it had gone well -- the man with whom she'd spoken had said that he liked her and wanted to hire her, but he had to conduct some other interviews and would be in touch. and then, maybe five minutes later, she said he was probably going to hire her because she was pretty... and how she couldn't help that.

i was jealous. i was also angry. i know i shouldn't be.

it took me the better part of a year to convince my boss he should hire me. this woman has an interview that probably lasted no more than fifteen minutes, and she will most likely get the job because she's pretty. when she's in conversations with men she won't reveal that she has a boyfriend. she takes advantage of her beauty. she uses it. i think that's what makes me the angriest. it's a tool to her. she wields it like a weapon.

how many of you do that? how many of you brag to others in front of women who aren't as blessed with physical beauty? i had to leave the room because i couldn't stomach the conversation any longer.

i'm writing this in my room, surrounded by the things i've collected and received over the course of my life: the chicano visions book sent to me by cheech marin's public relations team for his latin art exhibit, the prints and paintings i got from my grandmothers, the woodwork fashioned for me by my great uncle, the stories in which i have immersed myself... tales that have taken me out of my often bleak internal landscape -- as unsettling to me as my reflection is -- the hope i've found in them, however shortlived it may be.

but the things to which my eyes are most frequently drawn are the red patent leather shoes my mother thought i might like to have in my room. shoes worn in my toddler years. shoes worn when i could barely walk. shoes worn, most likely, with ugly metal braces that she was quick to throw out once i no longer needed them. i am reminded how lucky i am that i can walk... because so many with medical histories like mine can't. those shoes... and that ivory ceramic mug bearing the crest of my alma mater and the year of my graduation from high school. i am reminded of the teachers and the principals who thought i would fail to do so. most of the time, i look at those two things and remember my strength. most of the time it works, and i regain my balance, my perspective.

those fights, though... struggling to walk and learn the state-mandated curriculum... those were easy. those were good.

all the dark places

"black holes are the remnants of former stars; they're so dense that not even light can escape; they lurk inside every galaxy; they're the most destructive force in the cosmos; as a black hole passes through space, it engulfs everything that comes close to it, stars, comets, planets..." (theodore finch in all the bright places; niven, page 304).

the whole time i was reading this book i thought of things i wanted to say, comments in concert to content of this novel. i almost posted about it first before the book because the thoughts were swirling so close to the surface but didn't because: a) i blog about mental health a lot, i think -- maybe too much -- and people are probably as tired of my depression rants as i am of others' political tweets; b) i felt i should at least wait until i'd finished the book -- that blogging about it before wouldn't be right. and then i wasn't going to post about my thoughts at all because there's a hurricane and environmental and political unrest and... i kept telling myself that my voice doesn't really matter all that much.

and in the end, that last thought is exactly why i am posting. because that is exactly what's wrong with this picture.

i watched pieces of some documentary about walt disney last night, of how he'd built this amazing studio to accommodate the growing number of employees contributing to and carrying out his ideas, of how he'd created a pyramid system there, a hierarchy... that if you did this much work, you could have this many perks. and if you went around that system and tried to share your perks with others, you would be stripped of those perks.

i'm reading the beginning of everything by robyn schneider, and in it a character becomes more aware of social status and how the elite feel that only their voices matter. he'd not been listening to others, had not even thought to do so because he'd believed himself to be fairly content with his world and how it revolved.

of all the passages that i felt best summed up what it's like to have bipolar disorder, the one above about black holes does it the best. the last therapist i saw said she thought i had major depressive disorder, and not bipolar disorder as so many of my counselors and therapists suggested in my twenties. maybe that's true. i can tell you though... there's a point in all the bright places in which theodore is so overcome by his emotions, so exhausted from trying to be good, as he put it, that he moved into his closet and hid there. i can tell you that i've come out of my room a handful of times today, and only briefly -- trips to the kitchen and the bath. i've not changed out of my pajamas. the only self care i've done today is brush my hair and teeth. i made a half a sandwich for lunch. i had a small bowl of ice cream and a handful of saltines. i've drunk two coca-colas and am sipping on ginger ale. i am not hungry. i am eating because i know i should be. i threw up the sandwich, by the way -- maybe twenty minutes after having eaten it. not by choice, yall. i didn't stick a finger down my throat. i HATE being sick that way and would never choose to be so.

i am not doing well right now, which is why i'm in my room. i've not slept well in weeks. last night was the first night i'd not taken some sort of sleep aid because i thought maybe i would sleep better if i didn't, but i had bad dreams. i did awful things in them.

the only people who have texted me today are my writing friends with updates on their status regarding the damage from harvey, and that's because i'm in a group text. were i not to be in that group text, i would not have heard from any of them. the only other person to text me was the daughter-in-law of one of my mother's oldest friends, wanting to know how things were for us.

i text friends, and with the exceptions of a couple of people, it may be days before they reply. and when they do, i think they're only doing it because they feel guilty for not having done so sooner.

i think -- often, much too often -- as theodore does: i am broken, i am a fraud, i am impossible to love. i feel like that. all the time.

and there's the guilt. that i cannot be good. that i cannot be better. that i can't shrug this shit off. that i can't suck it up and plow through my day like so many others do. that i think it would be better if i drove my car onto the three-lane frontage road in front of pappadeaux's restaurant, where i go to write, and let the oncoming traffic traveling at fifty miles an hour or so t-bone me. that i have to remind myself how wrong that is, how selfish, how stupid, how costly. that i can't tell my parents or my friends when i'm being tossed about in the tempest because they won't understand and it's wrong to burden them with my troubles when they can't comprehend them. that i cannot appreciate all the good in my world (and i know it's there. you can't have a category four hurricane strike texas and put a shield over my home as karma has somehow done and not know of the good) as fully as i should. that i cannot be what the world wants me to be. i get up out of bed every morning and put on a mask the moment i go downstairs. and then i go outside, and if i'm lucky, i can wear that mask for the entirety of the time i'm around others. and sometimes it's not so much a challenge to wear it because somedays i'm stronger than others.

but my head hurts. every day. i hurt. EVERY day, and it's not just because i have that mild case of cerebral palsy. it's that my head's FUCKED, and tylenol or advil, vitamins and claritin and wellbutrin... they are drops in the bucket sometimes.

i am a black hole. and the best place for me to be is in my room, in my jammies, bundled in my blankets, resting on my pillows. banging on these keys or reading a book... or best of all... sleeping. because sometimes being awake sucks ass.

i hear all the time how nice i am. like yesterday, when the guys who take care of our pool texted to say they'd be by this week, i told them that our pool looked pretty damned good and they could put us last on their list. i was told of how sweet i am. instead of saying thank you, as i should have, i texted: actually, i'm not.

because really, i'm not. i have to do nice things to combat the evil within. i have to do nice things to remind myself that i am capable of good. i have to do nice things so the madness doesn't win.

they say you get what you give. i'm of the mind that you give what you get. and what i've gotten, since birth is the notion that i should be hidden away -- first by my doctors, then by my teachers and peers, and after college, the world, really. the only people i can say who truly care for me are my mother and my father.

i type that, and there's a part of me that knows it's wrong of me to say. there's a part of me that weeps because i feel that way. there's a part of me that is desperate to say this isn't so. it's not true. it's your mind lying to you.

i don't have the energy right now to find evidence to the contrary. were i to make the effort, i wouldn't believe what i found, even if it were in black and white.

i am a black hole. i keep everything, good and bad. the trouble is, there's so much more bad.

maybe i was capable of shining once. maybe. if so, it was so long ago i don't remember.

if one only remembers to turn on the light

oh, what a beautiful season... for some

i used to love this time of year. like really love it. like, i'd decorate my room and have my christmas shopping done before thanksgiving and have all my presents wrapped before mom had even rearranged the den to make room for and set up the tree. christmas was my favorite holiday. not because i got presents, though, i'll admit, i'm a greedy wench who likes getting a whole lot more than giving. and i like giving quite a bit. but because i believed it brought out the best in everyone.

i used to love it. i used to think it was the most magical time of the year, and that's what made it wonderful.

and then the magic began to fade. years went by and i'd face yet another holiday season as a single woman. i've never been in love at christmas time. i'm watching all these damned hallmark movies, and i love a lot of them. i used to believe in their possibilities, but they're just stories to me now.

christmas decorations didn't go up until the day after thanksgiving. and then that friday became black friday. and then thanksgiving became black thursday. and shopping centers put up their decorations and stores began advertising their holiday sales before halloween. the way we draw this season out now... if a little christmas spirit's good, a lot of it must be better, right? all that does is make me aware of what i lack, make that period last that much longer.

so there's no man for me. fine. the only reason i want one anymore is because every now and then i think it must be really nice to be held, to have someone hold onto you. other than that, meh. seems more of a hassle, really, to have a relationship than not. i'm well aware of the perks of the single life, and the last man i dated made me appreciate those perks a hell of a lot more than i'd ever done before.

my brother's been gone now for thirteen years. i don't get to find the perfect plaid button-down for him anymore. i don't get to hear him tease me about how he's found me the perfect present. i don't get to argue with him over why that ornament shouldn't be hung in that spot. i don't get to harass him about getting his lazy ass out of bed christmas morning so we can open our presents. but there's also... i don't get to worry that he won't live to see christmas morning, like i did that last one he was with us. i don't have to see my mother worry. not about that.

now i get to see her worry about her heart, and how it's not beating right. i get to worry that something awful will happen between now and christmas day, and she won't be with us. she spent this past weekend in the hospital. they put her under friday and tried to shock her heart back to a regular rhythm. i spent that day praying she wouldn't die. i spent the next one berating myself because i should've prayed that the procedure would've worked. i spent that weekend praying she would come home. i miss the times we spent at our cabin in colorado making paper chains and popcorn ornaments. i miss the innocence of the days of her playing her old holiday vinyls, like the new christy minstrels' merry christmas! album. that one had been my favorite. she put that one on thursday morning, december first. that night, my father was telling me about the procedure she was having the next day, and the first words out of my mouth were, could it kill her? i hate that that's the question i thought to ask. that i had hurt him in asking it. i hate that i had to prod her to write down her wishes for her funeral services just in case. hate that my brother's death has since forced me to be so damned practical.

i hate that my other brother's children are in mississippi. that we don't get to spend christmas with them this year. fine. we'll celebrate christmas again a few days later.

but mostly, i hate how selfish people are, how pushy they've become. how when i'm standing in line at hobby lobby to buy the frames my mother requested for the photos she wants to give my cousins' wives, the woman behind me has to keep inching forward because she's in that much of a hurry to buy her four rolls of wrapping paper. that i can't hold my ground and stand before the clerk who's ringing up my purchase, that i've to step further and further away from the clerk because the customer is crowding me. how when i say, i've moved three times for you; can you please stop?, she has to insist she's nowhere near me. i hate that i can't see that. that she's taking up so much room in my vision, i've lost all concept of everything else. that i can't just wait the handful of seconds it would've taken for the clerk to finish ringing me up before i explode and embarrass myself. that i've made others' shopping experiences unpleasant and the clerk's day that much more difficult because they've had to witness my kind of crazy. that all this grief boils over into my hollering at the customer that that may be enough room for you, but it's not for me because i can't see! i know i've ranted about this a lot. i hate that i can't make people understand how terrifying that can be for me. the picture on wikipedia's post about depth perception? if i were walking down that street, it'd look as flat to me as it does to you in that photo. that's how my vision works. i don't have a front and back, a near and far. i've a top and bottom, a right and left. all the cues mentioned on that page are crucial, vital to my ability to judge my place in my surroundings, and if too many of those are compromised because someone's standing in too close a proximity, i could lose it.

every time i go out, i risk that. i'd managed to be kind to everyone that day (except for when i was driving, but they're not hearing me bitch, so that doesn't count). i'd managed this for hours. i was at my second-to-last stop. i'd begun to think i was gonna get through the day without incident.

i had to put myself in time out after that. i drove to pappadeaux's and had a few cups of chamomile tea and carried on with my day. when i got home, i helped mom, who'd come home from the hospital the day before (thank god), get some of the christmas decorations out while we watched a hallmark movie. how ironic is it that the one she picked was about a boy who needed a heart transplant?

i hate that i've come to hate this time of year. i miss the days when it was magical. i wish it could be so again.

i don't know what to pray for anymore

i've never been good at praying. ever. i know how it should be done: you're supposed to express gratitude for the good, which i do; you're supposed to ask for help with things that hurt and are in need of healing, so i pray for my friends. i'm good with all that... until i get to what's hurting me, to how i've hurt myself, to how i'd like it to be healed. i don't know what to pray for anymore.

every well woman exam i've had has come back normal, save for the last. i've lesions, abnormal cells that may need special attention. i go back in march for another exam, and if they're still there... well, then...

i'm trying not to think anything of it. for the past month, i've managed to roll with this well enough. apparently they're rather common. they're caused by human papillomavirus, which i got from that douchebag i dated last year. i got it because i'd lowered my standards, because i relented. because i'd thought a lot of things i didn't like to think.

it's probably nothing, this... i'll probably go back, and they'll do their thing, whatever it is, and i'll be fine. this is probably just me freaking out because that's what i do best.

i am a strong woman. i know this. i might not always act as though i've got a backbone. i might use bitchy and bluster as a defense mechanism a little too often. i'm horribly passive aggressive. but i can take a ton of shit. you can poke and prod at me until you can't find a vein anymore, like doctors did when i was a baby...

whatever this is, i'll deal with it. that's been my thought process for the past month, since i got those abnormal results. hell, for the past eighteen months since all this shit really began. whatever this is, i'll deal with it, like i've done a thousand times before.

curious, though, isn't it, that i would feel compelled to go see that movie to joey with love. i went because she was gifted with a beautiful voice and seems to have had a beautiful heart and soul, and i wanted to know that beauty a little better.

halfway through the film, though, i thought... this could be you a year from now. this struggle she endured, this battle she fought and lost... leaving behind a man who loved her and a daughter who needed her. this could be your struggle... only you don't have as many reasons to fight as she did. all because you relented, because you gave up. you who makes a point to hold her ground, even if holding it means to curl up in a ball, to dig a trench, to bury yourself. well... you're running out of trenches... you can only build so many before the ground gives way.

the things i tell myself

this was written in the middle of cutting a significant number of pages from my manuscript, after several negative interactions with men who had expressed an interest in getting to know me.

i can't for the life of me figure out why the hell you want a man. you can't care for one. you've no concept of how to love one, of how to accept any positive attention they might throw your way. you can't love, jennifer. you can't. and all you want from a man, anyway, is to be held, which is absolutely the last thing any man wants to do. they can't stand that shit. 

remember when adam was holding you while yall were watching a movie? he was so bored he turned the movie off, and when you balked, he said he'd done it because he'd thought you'd fallen asleep. so obviously he wasn't so pleased to be in that situation.

you can't stand the way they look at you. the way they talk to you. you don't feel comfortable in their presence.

why in hell do you continually open yourself up to the scrutiny? you will never be seen as desirable by one. you will never be told you're beautiful by a man who honestly believes you to be so. you are not the girl a guy wants. can you please, please, please let go of this delusion? PLEASE.

it's so incredibly unhealthy for you to have it. they will never see you the way you want to be seen.

i'm trying to finish this story of mine. i think part of the reason it's taken so long is because i feel this way. this is where my head is, even with the medication i'm taking, so... i could use some prayers that the light will win out over the dark... that my mind could stop fixating on this hole, for lack of a better word.

a room without windows

my mother says that i am the strongest woman she knows. she is not the sort of woman who is biased where her children are concerned. she could tell you, with absolutely no effort or remorse, of every flaw and failure in her sons and daughter. she would have no trouble doing this. none. she will tell you that i will lie to your face, that i am frivolous with money, that i am crude and irresponsible and selfish and lazy... she can rattle off with great ease every shortcoming, every negative attribute i possess. that one compliment, though... that's like hope amid all the ugliness in pandora's box.

i bruise easily. it's almost pathetic how quickly and marvelously those bruises will form. and i know there are times where i've thought that perhaps some of those bruises were caused by brokenness. maybe they were.

i keep thinking of what my friend minn told me once, long ago, that a broken bone tends to heal so that it is stronger than it had been before.

another door has closed for me. another person has deemed me insufficient in some capacity. and so i am here again... in a room that seems to have no windows. a box, like the one my third grade teacher put me in so she wouldn't have to see me. 

too often i feel as though the world doesn't want me in it. i'm tired of fighting. i'm tired of having to prove myself. to convince someone that i'm worthy. i'm tired of trying to find and claim a place. and i know that i will get up again tomorrow and make as concerted effort as i can to fulfill the obligations that are expected of me. sometimes i'm just tired of being strong. i really just want to lean for a while. 

today's a fucking ugly day

(yesterday... the twenty-seventh)

pardon the vocabulary. if you've read picky before, yall know i can be crass like that.

the therapist is putting me on meds. i am kicking and screaming because they kill my creativity. but living with the crazy right now is killing any love i have for life. 

so tomorrow... i go to a doctor and tell him why i need the drugs. the pills i don't want to have to take.

because the hate and the rage and shame and inadequacy and despair and frustration and impotence were so strong in me today i damned near clawed my face off. and the guilt... let's not forget the guilt.

. . .

(today... the twenty-eighth)

the doctor i saw today, by the way, is an old friend of my family. he's known me since i was about ten. he's never known of how fucked up my head is because, contrary to what it may seem here... i don't broadcast that shit. i do it here, truth be told, for two reasons: one, and this one's much more selfish) to remind me that i've lived through this bullshit before and i can do it again... and again... and again... two) to let others know that they are not alone in battling the bullshit. misery loves company, yeah?

anyway...

thirty minutes i sat in this man's office, and for much of that time, i kept thinking of his lovely, lovely wife who passed away a few years ago, of the scarf of hers i carry in my purse, have carried every day since the service. this sweet, sweet woman who, while i'm certain could scold her daughters into submission just as well as the next mother, this woman who never seemed to show anything but goodness and kindness and thoughfulness. the good lord took her, of course. robbed a man of his happily ever after a little too soon, really. deprived her of the privilege of doting on her granddaughters. she had a life. a good one.

i have a life, too. but the world could use more people like her in it and fewer people like me.

so i'm sitting in his office crying about the rage and shame and guilt and the fact that i don't want to need this help but am so clearly very much in need of it.

zoloft... that one made me crazier. prozac... that one made me a void. so now it's wellbutrin.

and some other thing called clonazepam...for when i've fallen off the rocker completely and am bashing it against the walls of my psyche. he calls it the nine one one drug.

i don't like feeling that my life is so precarious.

i don't like thinking i've shredded my strength.

i think... therefore i'm single

yesterday was the wonder twins' seventh birthday. SEVEN. how the hell did that happen? why, WHY can't they stay little for a little while longer? gah.

i had two errands to run before the party (which was at little beakers in oak ridge north, which is pretty danged nifty, yall... you local folks should totally check them out): snag two papers to send to some folks and pick up some shampoo. real exciting stuff, i know. but first, i needed food. so i headed for market street to potbelly's for a skinny turkey (i'd meant to get a strawberry banana smoothie but got sidetracked).

sidetracked because i snuck through zulee's first. i love that place. i got distracted by the quotes wall. and the books, five of which caught my eye enough that i forked over some fifty bucks to take them home. but the thing that really made an impression was a little black and white foam coaster at cashwrap: i think, therefore i'm single.

i bought that, too, because at first i was amused. god forbid a woman have more brain power than a man. and my brain is pretty danged powerful, yall.

but the more i've thought about it, the more troubled i am by the thing.

because THAT'S the damned problem. it's not that i'm smart. it's that i have to think and think and think and think... i think so much and so hard and so often about a thing... can't see anything but that thing. can't care about anything but that thing. i worry over whether i should've said this or shouldn't've said that--more the latter than the former, of course, because i never know the right things to say.

it's fucking exhausting, and there's a stretch of months that exhaustion tends to whammy me: from thanksgiving to my birthday... the end of november to the end of march.

ten more weeks 'til my birthday. ten more weeks of valentine's crap followed by my brother's death day and my birthday and the calendar--thank god--goes easy on me again.

the only saving grace for this torturous stretch is football. it'd be nice to have a guy to watch the games with--i've never been involved with a guy during this time of year, save for that jackass i'd dated last spring who couldn't even be bothered to TEXT me happy birthday--but i can't shut my brain up long enough to get one to think of me in that way.

one of those quotes on the wall was positive attracts positive. yes, i know. i'm positive i've got a lot to offer. i'm positive i'm worth knowing.

i'm positive i don't know how to market myself so the many gifts i possess can be seen in the best light. i'm positive that the majority of my experiences with men have been negative, and that part of the blame for that falls on me. i'm positive being in a relationship with a guy terrifies the ever-living hell out of me.

i want to be distracted.

i want--so much--for a guy to say to me i'm not going to let you fuck this up.

days like these

there's an elderly man who volunteers as a crossing guard at one of the schools here in the area. he's in his eighties, i believe, and has terminal cancer. he won't live past the summer.

the staff at the school are throwing him a retirement party tomorrow.

i know about this because a woman called the office today wanting to give us information that we might publish in the paper.

it was a busy day today. i didn't have time to chat, so i gave her my usual spiel: send me the information, and i'll forward it to our editorial team. when she asked what kind of information, i told her as much as she'd care to share, but if it's for an event, i need to know when and where it takes place and the best person to call.

this is when she got my attention. this is when she told me about the man.

and when i got off the phone with her, i cried. thank god the office was empty.

now it may be this man's lead a full life, one with much love and laughter in it. but the storyteller in me can also imagine a bleaker, lonelier, emptier alternative: that he's just some old guy, a crossing guard and not that many people would notice his absence; how beautiful it is that these people are celebrating his life this way.

when i got home, i fixed dinner--a bowl of oatmeal with probably too much milk and butter--and read some of joy preble's latest, finding paris (which i'm liking, by the way. yall should read it). and then i took a shower, put some comfy clothes on and went outside for a bit to admire all the green.

it hasn't rained here in two or three days. everything is beautiful. and it was sunset, my favorite time of day.

there's a spot in the plot of land across from our house where nothing grows because i've parked my car there much too often. a long, long time ago, in addition to that spot were two strips where nothing grew because my older parked his car there.

my mom and dad were out with friends tonight. the same friends who happened upon me looking miserable, sitting on those barren strips of land a few days after my brother had died. i remember that. i remember the expressions on their faces when they saw me. i remember wondering how it must've looked to them, rounding the corner to our house and seeing me there on the grass with my legs drawn up and my arms tight around them, my chin resting on my knees. i remember hating that the grass would grow back. that so many signs of his having been here would be gone and so soon.

i stood on the driveway tonight, reveling in the glory of the last light of day, loving the way the world felt in that moment--the peace, the beauty, the quiet... the way the sun glows through the trees, gold against black... the way the air feels. i swear it changes at sunset. it's softer somehow.

but also wishing that my internal landscape was as content as my surroundings seemed to be--not all the time... not even half the time, just enough to make the bleaker days like these more bearable. wishing that the grass would grow over the spot where i'd too often parked my car because i hadn't really parked it there for weeks. wishing that it hadn't grown over those strips where he parked his.

i came back in and read some more.

and thought of saturday when i'd run into preble at the bookstore. my father had pulled me over to some table where someone he knew from way back when was having a book signing. he wanted me to meet her.

i've given up on writing for the moment. i don't entertain delusions of publication right now. i don't want to meet other people who have found some success in the field.

like i don't want to go to weddings and baby showers. i'll be the first to buy you a gift because i'm happy for you and shopping for those kinds of things brings me joy. but being there, surrounded by women who have walked down that aisle themselves or have plans of doing so... i don't want to mix with them. nor do i want to mingle with women who are growing round with the life they've made.

i ran into preble at the bookstore. and she asked me how i was. and i told her that i'd gotten my job back at the paper and i'm writing some for them, which is taking some getting used to because i'm rusty and don't have much confidence at the moment. that i'd been seeing a guy who'd said and done some ugly things to me.

when i told her the worst of what he'd said, she reacted the same way i'd reacted when i'd first heard it, the way most of my friends have, the way any woman should, really. and i'd told her that it wasn't so much that he'd said it, it was that i hadn't thought much of myself in my adolescence and hearing how ugly i am from someone who supposedly cares for me is hard to shrug off, given that.

and this woman who'd taught me senior english way back when, she said she'd just been thinking that i was gorgeous. god love her.

sunday, my mother and i went to a visitation; one of her friends had recently lost her husband.

on our way out, we ran into a handful of people we knew; a woman and her daughter and a couple. the woman had worked as the nurse at my junior high school. i'd probably gone to her office too much back then, faking physical sickness to get out of school and away from those who hurt me mentally. the woman was talking to someone else, so i struck up a conversation with the daughter and told her how much i appreciated how well her mother had cared for me. because i'd felt that she had cared. and i always like it when people pay compliments about my parents to me. it makes me proud of them. i'd thought the daughter might like to know i thought well of her mother.

the couple looked on as i did this. the man started joking about how i'd gone to see the nurse a lot and how it must be nice to go through life that way.

i wasn't amused. and it damned sure wasn't the time or place for ridicule. it ruined that moment for me. and instead of ignoring him and reiterating the compliment to the daughter, as i should've done, i put my defenses up and got louder and tried to act like i was amused. i'm never good at that, though. i can't act. i don't have that skill.

his daughter and i had gone to school together. her treatment of me over a decade was much like his had been in that moment, in every moment i run into him.

i wish i could encounter more people like joy preble in the world and fewer like that man.

this evening i thought of how hard it was for me to find ten people who would write for me for my blog last month for something that was a pretty big deal to me. i know people, so many people who, if they said i need ten people, they'd have help in ten seconds.

i am not one of them.

i can't help but think that my life is like that bleaker, lonelier, emptier version of the story i'd imagined for that crossing guard. that not that many people would notice my absence.

i'm trying really hard not to feel that way. i know. i know it's not true. but there're far too many people like that man from sunday's service in my world.

my mother's constantly marveling that i can't let go of things.

it would be easier if they could let go of me. i try. and someone's always there to remind me.

descending... again

i haven't wanted to write about this. i wasn't going to. i've been trying for the past few weeks to distract myself: i left texas for a long weekend in the deep south; i spent several days immersing myself in dickensian london to reacquaint myself with some of my favorite characters; i've worked; i've played; i've watched movies; i've taken aimless drives along some of my favorite backroads. i've sought the counsel of some of my better friends.

maybe that's part of the problem. some of my better friends haven't been good friends lately. several weeks ago, one flew in from tennessee for a long weekend; i met her for dinner one night and then again for tea the next morning before her lunch meeting. and everything was fine. it was fine. until she had to broach the subject of what i will do with myself once my parents are no longer here. and i had this godawful panic attack. it was horrible. i had to excuse myself. had to step outside and sit in the sun and pinch my arm until it nearly bled to alleviate the tension in my being. i'm crying right now remembering it.

because i don't know what i will do. i don't know. i don't want to think about it. friends are supposed to lift you up. i don't have that many. and this one, she's always, always been a source of comfort to me. i've always felt so blessed that she should want to call me friend. i know she hadn't meant to upset me. i know she hadn't. i know what brought about the conversation was her concern for her own mother's well-being. and i know she was concerned for mine. i know all this.

i don't know how to talk to people. i've said this before. i can't begin to tell you how much i hate conversing with them. i loathe it. because i'm so awful at it. i would rather not do it at all. and all this stems from a horrible, horrible childhood i can't overcome. i hate that, too. i try. i try so hard, but it can't be done. i make myself go out. i make myself say the words. and then i beat myself senseless for saying the wrong thing. again.

for being the wrong thing. for not playing the stupid, stupid games. i've never understood why they must be played. i'm supposed to be a bitch to the boys i like and sweet to the ones i don't? what the hell is that? it's so rare that i like a guy that i'm excited when i actually meet one i do like. and i like being excited. it's so much better than the alternative.

the other day, i asked another friend to tell me that i'm not nothing because i don't have a man or children and live with my parents and work in retail. to remind me that i'm not nothing. i know i'm not. but i'd forgotten. again. because i am incapable of doing those things that make a woman womanly. of standing. of holding my ground. so she did. she spoke of several of her friends who were married and unhappy. of the fact that some of her happiest friends are single.

you know what sucks? i get to that point where i don't want... just that. i don't want. i'm not ashamed to say it. it's kind of nice being there. i can tolerate that so much better than i can tolerate this. and then some boy will come along and remind me that wanting's not so bad. i'll like that boy; i won't want to be a bitch (and trust me... i'm quite capable of bitch. my mom says i've got the go-to-hell look patented, and i'm sure she's right... i can feel the fury on my face when i unleash that look). i'll be sweet to him. because it's so rare that that's what i want to be. this, of course, isn't want the boy wants. and i'll have to start all over. again.

i'm tired of fighting. i'm tired of having to do this by myself. just once... one time i want a man to fight for me. to fight with me. i want to know what that feels like. not this.

i make myself go out there. and then i come home to this lovely brick house in this lovely neighborhood with all its glorious greenery. i round the corner. i turn onto our street. i pull into the driveway. and i have to pretend to my parents that i'm fine. again.

sucker punches

i got pulled over tonight. a friend and i saw the hundred foot journey, which is amazingly good and lovely by the way. it'd been a good day. i got a pedicure. i played my best game of hearts today. i had a good day at work. brio's had italian wedding soup (this is not always the case). it didn't rain; i thought for sure it was going to because there was that tropical storm that blasted mexico, and in the past few evenings, we've seen some pretty impressive cloud cover here, no doubt because of dolly. i wouldn't've minded rain, except phineas does not have a functioning air conditioning system, and so i'm driving with the roof open and the windows down; i did not want to get drenched. i browsed a bit in barnes & noble, straightened a bay of books, skimmed a couple of pages of some michael connelly novels, managed to entice a woman to read the language of flowers rather than some sophie kinsella crap. spent some quality time with a friend and watched a REALLY good flick.

for the most part, it was a really good day.

the not-so-attractive bits: i planted my left hand smack dab in the center of a fire ant bed, so now i've got some lovely little bite marks all over it. i've some sort of an infection that's wreaking havoc somewhere in my digestive tract (i'm almost done with the antibiotics, thank god), and the ice cream, popcorn and coca-cola i had right before and during the film was just too much for my still-weakened system, so i got sick. on my way to a convenience store to purchase a roll of tums and a bottle of water, some guy in an s.u.v got too close to me; his lights blinded me so that i couldn't see the road well. i put my hazards on in hopes that he would use one of the other two vacant lanes to pass. but he stayed where he was. so i stopped. he stayed where he was. i stuck my hand out and gestured for him to go by. and then i saw the outline of the lights atop his car. which is, of course, when he turned those lights on.

no biggie. i just have to tell him that i have special k vision and couldn't see. and then i have to tell him that i don't wear contacts or glasses, that my eyes were crossed when i was born, that i have no depth perception because of it, that it can't be corrected, that at night i rely very heavily on what i see in my mirrors, that i couldn't see because of the lights.

all i want is some tums.

i don't want to think about the conversation the friend and i had before the film started--about what i'm doing with my life, what i'm not doing and why i'm not doing it. i don't want to think about the comment a woman left on my facebook page today--the only therapist i'd seen in my adolescence that i respected, the only one who seemed to respect me... i don't want to think about how, maybe, just maybe if i'd actually had the courage to tell her what troubled me then, that i'd be so much better off now. i don't want to think about the fact that i don't have a passion for anything. i just want the tums and the water and my bed.

so i pull into a parking lot, tell the cop that i've those vision issues and wait for him to do his initial check and come back so i can tell him that those issues can't be corrected. and there before me is this tree. and all the leaves are golden. dry. dead.

i feel like that tree. and i really wish my brain would leave me alone. i'm tired of the sucker punches. i'm tired of the battles. the losses and failures.

copper lets me go. i get my tums. i go home. and cry. again. and then i sit down to jot a quick note on facebook that more people need to see that movie.

i look to my left at a printout my mother's left on her desk. an email. a spiritual thought for the day.

it's a passage from john o'donohue's anam cara: a book of celtic wisdom.

i won't quote the whole thing. this is a long enough post as it is. but this, the beginning of beannacht for josie:

on the day when

the weight deadens

on your shoulders

and you stumble,

may the clay dance

to balance you.

that passage... the fact that it was there, in such a spot that my attention would be drawn to it... that must be the clay.

fifty different reasons

six weeks or so ago, i wrote a post called fifty reasons to live. i reread it a lot, especially when i'm sad and lost and lonely and tired and... like today. today was not a good day. nothing happened to make it bad. nothing has to. that's why it's bad. because... nothing. i feel like a nothing. i've accomplished nothing. and i've no desire to do anything. i have more days like today than not. this is what depression looks like for me. fifty reasons to want it over. done. the end. this is the bullshit i battle in my brain on what seems to be a daily basis. the good news is, this time it was a helluva lot harder to come up with the fifty.

one. because they said you couldn't.
two. because they said you shouldn't.
three. because they said you wouldn't.
four. because you crawl into an empty bed. every. night. in your parents' house because you can't afford your own.
five. cupcakes. sure. because you need another five pounds on your ass. go ahead. eat.
six. you think you have friends. hahahah. no, you don't. how many of them actually give a shit about you? isn't that why you spend so much time at pappadeaux's? you're not writing. you've not written anything in weeks. you just sit there, running your mouth, wasting your money and annoying the servers.
seven. the scars. those doctors, they've made you so pretty.
eight. not that you were pretty in the beginning. and all you did was cry. all the damned time.
nine. yeah. daddy. you treat him like crap. and it's always take... take... take.
ten. and mama. you think your mother's a saint. and she is for putting up with you all these years. you're a spawn. a spore. you're nothing like her. you're no lady. you've no class. no grace. you're too selfish and bitchy and needy...

eleven. films. that's all you ever wanna do. watch movies. you'd spend the rest of your pathetic life in bed, watching movies. because you're too afraid to live. you'll never write a story so good someone will feel compelled to show it on a screen.
twelve. there's those things your peers... those people who can manage to make friends and live good lives... they said things like this: you should go kill yourself because the world would be better off without you in it. you should've listened.
thirteen. poetry? everything you write is crap. no one's ever gonna wanna read it. your poems are too prosaic. remember? your creative writing professor told you that.
fourteen. star wars sheets. what? are you twelve? geek.
fifteen. pappadeaux's. amy's right, you know. they're only nice to you because they have to be.
sixteen. literature. if you're not watching a movie, you're reading a book. because being stuck in your life is such a hell. and the only way you know to escape it is to get lost in some stupid story.
seventeen. you're taking up valuable air and space, and there are more important people who need it.
eighteen. minn was only nice to you because she felt sorry for you.
nineteen. shazam...
twenty. and bambam... they're getting older. wiser. they won't love you quite so easily when they see who you really are. you'll hurt them.

twenty-one. you quit smoking? why the hell did you bother with that? you want a short life, right? doesn't quitting just make it last longer?
two. your teachers... how many of them hated teaching you? i bet it was a lot.
three. stupid.
four. ugly.
five. worthless.
six. like school did you any good anyway. all that money your grandmother and great aunt left you, so you could have a fine education. and you squandered it.
seven. you're so fat. it's so disgusting. lazy bitch.
eight. and your teeth. gross.
nine. your face, though. that's the worst. no amount of make-up will make that thing pretty. it won't matter how many times you stare in the mirror and how many different ways. that glass is gonna show the same cross-eyed, freckled, scarred shit.
thirty. everything bugs you. remember? your brother's friend the other day started rattling off a list. he only stopped because you interrupted him.

thirty-one. every night... just so you can sleep, you've gotta pop some pills. there's so much ugliness in you the only way you can silence it is to drug it. how sad.
two. and then there're the things you'd overheard: i'm only nice to her because she gives me gum.
three. you like giving things to people don't you? makes you feel better about yourself? they're just things. and you're trying to buy affection. just like when you were a kid.
four. phineas. how many cars is that now? six cars you've wrecked. and you love that car? sure looks it, what with all the scrapes on the exterior, the gashes in the seat, the patches in the carpet... yeah. you love that car. i can tell.
five. your own brother doesn't even wanna spend time with you. but that's okay. you don't much wanna spend time with him, either.
six. you're too much like a boy. don't even know how to be a girl, do you?
seven. but that's okay. the boys don't want to get their hands on you anymore. not that they ever really did. you were just convenient. and lonely. and easy. or so they thought.
eight. but you can't even do that right, can you? so eager to play. til you get to a certain point. and then you balk. and walk. every time.
nine. when's the last time you did something good--really good--for anyone?
forty. you talk too much. no one wants to hear the words coming out of your mouth. no one cares.

forty-one. you've been at that job of yours for almost four years. how many people have been hired and promoted since then? some of those gals got promoted to management in six months' time. and look at you. still struggling. how long do you think they're gonna let you do that? move up, or move out, jenny. pretty soon, it's gonna be out.
two. and look at you. you've never held a job for more than four years. ever. that's pretty pathetic.
three. no one wants you here. not really.
four. god knows your parents would be better off. they could actually enjoy retirement instead of having to support their stupid, lazy daughter.
five. no one will ever wanna marry you because you're too ugly, and no one wants to wake up next to something that ugly every morning.
six. laughter. really? have you forgotten how often, how loudly and how gleefully they laughed at you?
seven. no one gives a shit about any stories you have to tell.
eight. if you die? because you call this living? they've already won, silly girl. they won a long time ago.
nine. your brother can't because he was weak. you're just like him. in all the wrong ways.
fifty. that promise? you signed a piece of paper twenty years ago. that doctor who made you sign it? he's probably forgotten all about you. so many will...

so... there. i took my benadryl. i'll brush my teeth and crawl in bed, and read or watch a movie until i can't stay awake anymore. and to counter all this ugliness, there's number fourteen from that happier list:

at the end of the day, you get to crawl into your supremely comfortable bed dressed in its star wars sheets and sleep knowing that you made it one more day. that you hung in there. that even if you hadn't accomplished anything else in your day, you did that. and that was enough.

yeah. star wars sheets. return of the jedi to be exact. and they are badass. i love them.

t is for try, try, try...

so this evening, while working on the character bios for reese and seth, i was polling the servers and bar staff for suggestions (because the way it works for me is that i'll grill people for things like biggest regret or college majors and the like, and when someone says something that makes sense, i run with it. it's like i recognize it. like i knew it before it was said, but couldn't say it... or something). and i can get pretty loud. and i won't care that i'm loud, really, because to be honest, i have two decibels: meek and boisterous. and i was happy. so i was boisterous. and oblivious to how that happiness might have made other patrons unhappy. no. not oblivious. i didn't care. and i should've.

the booth behind me was crowded with a number of overweight, poorly-dressed african american women of varying ages.

i'd been polling the servers about their biggest fears. one of them had mentioned the camel spider. i was unfamiliar with such a critter. so i googled it. and one of the pictures i saw was quite disgusting. and i could not help but shriek when i saw it.

i was in the middle of turning my laptop so that the server could see what i'd found when i heard one of the women at my back exclaim, what is wrong with that girl?

now, i've never been any good at standing up for myself. ever. but for some reason, i found the courage to turn my attention to these ladies. i glared at them and said, really. and then i turned back around.

and i could hear them muttering amongst themselves. i let it go for a minute or two. but i really wasn't in the mood for it. so i turned back around and said, maybe yall should wait until you've left the restaurant to talk about me behind my back.

and one of them said, no, we'll do it right here.

i waited a moment. was going to ignore them. but i'm not good at that. so i got up, shoved past them and went outside to sit on the one of the benches. i was gonna wait until they'd left to go back inside. and then i thought, that's cowardly, and i'd rather have a drink. so i went back inside. and they were still there.

one of the bartenders told me after the women left that one of them had taken out her pepper spray and pointed it in my direction.

all because sometimes boisterous tips over into obnoxious. because, on a rare occasion, i'd raised my voice.

of course, these women went straight to one of the managers before they'd left to complain about their experience.

there are times when i'm at pappadeaux's that i feel a majority of the staff there tolerates me. but on this occasion, the manager came to me after addressing those women's concerns to make sure i was alright. she said that she thought i was pretty cool. or something. and she'd seemed proud of me for standing up. the bartenders did what they knew to do, too, to cheer me up.

i was pretty quiet after that.

some people think i'm this really nice chick, that i give so generously. the only i reason i work so hard to be giving is because i keep thinking if i give enough, i'll be better for it in the end. and at first, when i thought that, i wondered just how giving i needed to be. and then it occurred to me that those people at that restaurant, the staff there, they had my back. maybe not in the moment, because i'm sure there're limits to what they can do (though the manager said that if i'd come to her the moment the incident began she would've handled it), but after... they kept me from crumpling. and that's a pretty good return.

so tomorrow... i will try to be better. to be more deserving of their compassion for me.