You call yourself a fan when all I can think is fraudulant fanatic. You are given gifts and all you can do is gripe, bitch and moan. Crass complaints instead of compliments. Questioning and quarrelling. There is no gratitude or grace in your words. There was no reason beyond simple generosity yet your greedy little heart wanted more and more. You turned a deaf ear to the offer and called for much more. Before, during and after. Laid before you were the new words from a broken heart, a soul bared still grieving, yet all you want are old words, sung too many times over. New doesn’t excite you. You want yesteryear as if nothing could be better. If you can’t move on why move this way at all? You didn’t read the letters outlining the expectations. Didn’t you know your gifts came with a purpose? Of course not for you only listened to what you wanted, disappointed when you didn’t get it. You embarrass me.
There is a rudeness to you. You wave your paltry collection like some sultan. Did you think there would be gratitude on bended knee, a bowed head murmuring thank you for all you have given? You think your donation is the salve to soothe the situation. The end all, be all answer to the cause.
You call yourself a friend when you don’t pay back debts or walk two way streets. I won’t ever acknowledge you. Unlike you, I walk away from the past when it becomes meaningless, useless, stupid and loud. There is a time and place for everything and you aren’t anything. Not to me at least.
So, call yourself fan. Call yourself friend. Then tell yourself you failed at both.
Category: Bad
Sweet Sorrow
Over 15 years ago I was roaming the streets of New York City, oblivious to the fact that at home a life was slowing slipping away. Unable to communicate the seconds of precious life ticked by while I took in Cats and the Russian Tea Room. I got there in time but I never forgave myself for not getting there sooner. I just never thought it would happen again. Dancing around New York City while death danced too close at home. Too much to understand.
You will never know how guilty I feel for not being there. I should have held your hand. I should have seen you through the pain. I know you will tell me it was bad timing, that it just happened that way, but when you choked back the words I knew I should have been there. You tried to tell me you were okay. Even if you were, I wasn’t. Forgive me for taking a little time to get over the irony – for the exact moment I closed my eyes in exhausted slumber, he closed his eyes for good. Forgive me for feeling far away and failed.
I’m here now.
This Old Post 12/8/95
I want a love I can’t get from just anyone. To be hugged for no reason is a rare thing. It’s the little gestures. I could care less about gifts. I’m tired of it all and when I’m tired I tend to look at the should haves, could haves, would haves, if onlys. Oh Romeo, take me dancing. Keep me up for all hours of the night; make me feel I am worth all the late night hours. Have fun. Life as we knew it ended today. I want a drink. I want to make love to someone who whispers my name. I ‘d love a love so deep it forsakes everything else.
It is hard to believe 12 years have passed since I felt this, this…whatever. I don’t even know what to call it. The man I thought I knew admitted he was torn between love and hate of me. Yet, I stayed committed to being unwanted for no reason whatsoever. Even after moving on I was determined to play the fool.
What a difference a decade makes! I could kick my own self’s ass for being so silly. I could laugh in the face of such stupidity. Yet, those things were put in my way for a reason. Lessons to be learned and not lightly. Love is not to be awarded like a trophy just because you are gorgeous on the outside. Love is to be hard earned because you are beautiful on the inside. Instead of Work It Girl it’s Work For It. The relationships in my life didn’t love me like they should have because I didn’t. Respect didn’t walk in my door and own my pride. It took those silly, stupid moments for it all to make sense.
These days I have a love that forsakes all others. It dances me til dawn. I have it not because I deserve it, but because I earn it. Everyday.
I Won’t Fight
I admit it. I hit rock bottom last night. After breaking down emotionally I lost all resolve, self respect and worst of all, the will to hold my ground. I’ll admit it. I told my husband I couldn’t take it anymore. I said I was tired from crying so much, exhausted from being so emotional and what’s more, that I didn’t want to be here. I actually said that. I don’t want to be here. Define “here” anyway you want. I knew what I meant and it wasn’t pretty. I once said desperation was an ugly word and an even uglier emotion. That was me, myself and moi last night. Ugly.
There is nowhere to go but up. From here, I can’t sink any lower or feel any worse. I’m backed into a corner and all I want to do is dissolve into a puddle of pitiful. Rock bottom. I am there. I am so there. That bottle I talk about? I tilted it back again and again, hating myself with each swallow. I danced like I knew what I was doing. An 80’s flashback and even a great drum solo couldn’t save me. I put on a face but ended up showing my true self. Ugly desperate. Drunk and done.
This Old Blog 11/18/05 9:31am
The black cloud just paid a visit to my neighborhood. It’s not exactly over my head but it will be there soon enough. I just got word that B’s father lost the battle against brain cancer. Wait. Let me take that back. There was never a fight. There was never a fighting chance. Because of that B moved his wedding date in the hopes Mr. B would be able to attend, to see his only son get married. In the end he was too sick to be there despite the (very) moved up date.He was told he had X amount of time to live. So he did. Now he’s gone. Just like that. The emotions inside of me are like fireworks, each one a different color and size and intensity. I’m angry at the very word cancer. I’m hurting because I know what it’s like to lose a father before your life really gets started.
Another friend is dealing with a different kind of death. The kind that comes after a breakup. The person might as well be dead to him because of the way she is handling the goodbye. He calls it immature and I can see why. But, what he doesn’t realize is that it is hard to be mature when you feel you have been wronged on so many different levels. It’s difficult to think in terms on “just friends” when you want something more. In response she acts, rude, forgets her manners, all common decency goes out the door. Still, I hurt for my friend. The death of anything is never easy.
Thanksgiving Friends
Dedicated to Patricia
Today marks the second anniversary of my announcement (to anyone who would listen) that I was running 13.1 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I can’t believe how incredibly brave I was to throw on the cape reserved for heroes and raise over $3,000 for LLS. It’s certainly not the most anyone has ever raised, but as the person who can’t even ask for understanding I impressed myself. Seriously.
Today I’ve imagined myself running for a cancer charity again. Simply because cancer is back in my life. To be honest, it never left. People around me have been announcing their struggles. Everyday it feels like there is another person dealing with it, coping with it, fighting the good fight against it, beating it. Winning. And losing. Yet, I don’t run because I’ve lost my cape, lost my courage. Lost my belief in that good fight.
I May Know
There are those commercials that talk about depression. You know, the ones that describe days when you don’t want to do anything? You don’t feel like eating, there’s nothing good on television, no one you want to talk to (text maybe), no desires except maybe to sleep for days on end. I wondered aloud to my husband if maybe, just maybe, that was my problem. Maybe I was depressed. Or maybe just indifferent to my here and now. If I had to chose I would prefer indifference.
I have decided to let go of previous struggles. They just aren’t important anymore. Like hanging on to something under water. It grows heavier and heavier until finally I lose my grip. But. But, letting go is such sweet sorrow! The burden slowly sinks away, growing further and further out of reach. Couldn’t change my mind if I wanted to. Opportunity lost without caring. I think of Natalie’s “I May Know The Word” and how it is a song of indifference. She may know the word but not say it. I’m like that, turning my head, oblivious to what was once important to me. What was once sacred no longer sustains me. Does this scare me? A little.
I’m not heartbroken to let something in me die. Maybe it was beyond saving all along? Maybe it was so dysfunctional that dying is such sweet relief? When I told my husband I thought something in me just shriveled up and died, guess what he did. He smiled. Not caring is the equivalent of not hurting and that is a good thing.
All’s Fair
I’m currently reading A Diary From Dixie and the narrator, Mrs. Mary Chestnut is a pretty funny lady. My standard way to “review” a book is to give a brief overview of the general plot, what I thought while I was reading it, some quotes that I found to my liking (for one reason or another) and finally, where in it belonged in the Book Lust Challenge. For A Diary from Dixie I have way too many quotes I will want to use. Really, what has been happening is Mrs. Chestnut’s comments are causing me to think about my life and how the quotes relate. Two such quotes deserved their own blog.
“Only your own family, those nearest and dearest, can hurt you.” and, “They tell you all of your faults candidly because they love you so” (p 128).
There is a lot of truth tied to those two statements. Never mind that they were written in August 1861. Never mind that this country was at war with itself at the time. Mrs. Chestnut made comments about something so commonplace, so true, that it could have been written yesterday…by me.
What is it about hurting the ones you love? Where do you draw the line? You’ve heard it before – This Is For Your Own Good…This Hurts Me More Than It Hurts You…I Did It Because I Love You…She’s Family (she won’t mind)…
It’s been almost a month since I first felt the sting of “my own good.” I haven’t had the forgiveness to really say much about it until now. I sat and stewed in my own juices for all this time. Friends, kisa, and even my own mother, have jumped in the soup and offered words of advice. I’m grateful for every kind word uttered. I’m thankful they (at least) aren’t telling me how to feel. They know that’s worse than giving me a hundred flat tires. Right, Scott? I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: when in doubt, ASK. When it doesn’t concern you, stay out. If you think it concerns you, converse with me, convince me. I’ll listen. It doesn’t matter what “right” you think you have, family or not, blood or water, I will listen.
Beyond Me but Beside Me
Lately, I can’t breathe. Lately, it feels like everything is beyond me. Beyond my control. My mind races no matter where I am. Work. Work is insane. I’m in over my head. The Fray have it perfectly said. I love that song right now. It’s so me. This is so friggin hard. Right now. I’m trying to look like I know what I’m doing but it feels like one big puppet show. I fight tied up in strings.
My home life. I’m drowning. If it weren’t for kisa I would be hanging from heartache. No, hate. I’ll admit it. Hanging from hate. There is someone caught in the middle of this and I feel so damned sorry for her. She didn’t ask for this. Well, neither did I. Neither did I. Excuse me if I don’t rush to thank you or act grateful or pretend to think you saved me. If anything I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days. I’m in over my head.
Kisa leaves me in three days. He said something interesting last night. “All this” he said, waving his hand around to signify all of life, “will seem like nothing next year. You will look back on this time and know you are stronger than all that.” I believe it. I look at what I was worried about two years ago today and I have to laugh. It’s amusing how I was so wrapped up in trivial things.
In the meantime I take sharp breaths, fighting to breathe. Head above water. Kisa pats me leg everytime I gasp. He’s getting used to me. It’s like I’ve been crying so hard I hyperventilate. Kisa makes the bed everyday and laughs at the twisted sheets. “Harsh night?” He’ll ask while pulling the fitted sheet back over the mattress and untangling the mess of blankets. To me, it’s as bad as wetting the bed. It’s embarrassing how much I kick, toss and turn when I finally fall asleep. It’s all beyond me but I can make it through this because Kisa is beside me.
Shocked into Silence
I lost almost a day of work thanks to being stupid. This is all I have left to say.
Minimal
Kisa took this picture of serenity while I wrestled with chaos. I was thinking about something my sister said and was arguing with her (vehemently) in my head. She wasn’t there but I could hear her voice. She has tried to direct my direction before. In the past I’ve come close to giving in, letting her guide me where she thinks I should be going. This time it’s a directive as simple as “you should say something” but the fear in my heart gives it complexity and chaos. So, while a sailboat sails silently over the seas I wrestled this stupid struggle to the ground. I felt as though I was winning… but before I could pin it and really claim victory the triumph was lost in self doubt. More confusion. Maybe she is right. That thought alone keeps me questioning. You should say something. So I do. Later, I do.
Here’s the thing: Confessions are like closets. You never know what’s behind their doors or how deep they’ll go. To say something is to open that door and wait for whatever comes out. Or what wants to enter in. I made a start by admitting to something small, miniscule. I opened a tiny confessional window instead of that big ugly door. Untrusting, I was testing the temperature of acceptance, if you will. I had a right to be worried. The reception was chilly. Borderline bitter cold. I offered up an open window and it was slammed shut with “oh…that’s not what happened!” An exclamation of denial in a condescending tone to something in my life, lived by me, myself & moi. You’re telling me my confession is clueless. You’re telling me my memory is all wrong despite my living it. You can’t get much colder than that. If I could raise the dead and make them speak I would prop her up and make her tell you how it happened. Someone to back me up. Someone to say that’s how it happened. I need a witness.
In the end I wrestled chaos and confusion. I went to the depths of anger and came back resigned. As a result of the window I will never open the door. I will never share the secrets. It’s bad enough I know.
I Don’t Deserve
I had felt like crying all day. Heartache would lurch forward, stuttering, sudden and unexpected. A surprise for my composure. Choking back unwanted emotion, it was all I could do to swallow down sorrow. Mantras: Turn away from the hurt. Keep my eyes averted from the loss of composure. Keep my hands on the wheel of self control. Flare ups of faltering just sent me failing.
It doesn’t get easier. It just gets different. A peanut shell is just a shell until this time September. My mother says she remembers every second. 15 years later.
I’m jumpy, jittery. Suspicious as all hell. When a well known, troubled patron came into my office I eyed his shaking hands, his twitchy eyes and untucked shirt with paranoia. Harmless, he swayed from foot to foot as he explained he wanted to read something to me. I nodded, unable to voice my reluctant consent. I should be used to this by now. When he finished he folded his paper and started for the door. Harmless. To my surprise he didn’t walk out the door, instead he abruptly closed it. Shocked, panic nearly broke through paranoia and I started to protest. Harmless or not I was alarmed. He had locked the rest of the world out. No one could get in. Caged out. Before I could utter a single sound this nervous, twitching, skittish, peculiar patron produced a pitch pipe and started to sing. His voice waivered and trembled but never missed a note. His face took on a look of complete calm as he kept his voice quiet. His song was haunting and sad, beautiful and sweet. Short, too. Just as abruptly he finished, gave me a quick bow and was gone. Leaving the door to my once thought of cage open.
I do not deserve the kindness of you when all I do is dread and doubt. Jumping to conclusions, jumping out of my skin. I’m angry because I can’t sit still and accept your gifts graciously. I’m sad because I’ve let the words and advice of others taint my judgement of you (restraining order?). There is no reason to be jumpy or judgemental, yet I am.
Wedding Waddle
Since when did I start liking cake? I’ve never liked cake. For years and years I have been the one to bypass the big layers of bad and go for the fruit whatever. I’m a pie or tart girl. When did I give up the eat smart/eat healthy routine and opt for the Bring It On attitude? Examples: when our Austrian friends got married I attacked the buffet line like a linebacker with a big bite. When our German friends got married I got my own huge plate of everything and thensome. I had a healthy belly for the beverages, too. Merlot and two sour apple martinis. In that order. When did that happen? It happened to go right to my head.
To celebrate the season finale of The Closer Kisa and I ordered pizza. We stayed true to our tradition of wheat crust. Everything else went by the wayside. We ordered two zahs: Greek goodness (feta cheese, black olives, spinach, tomatoes, double cheese)…and an Aloha (ham, bacon, pineapple and…you guessed it, double cheese). Caution to the wind, diet be damned. It was damn good.
To make matters worse, my illicit affair with the vending machine has started up again, too. In short time I’ve got my routine down to a science. I wait until no one is around, slowly sidle up to the humming, glowing love machine of sweet and whisper my own sweet nothings in the form of quarters. Mr. V gives me exactly what I want, when I want it. I steal away, tearing open the wrapper, devouring chocolate and salt as I retreat back to my office as quickly as I can. I don’t want to be caught in the act, but the evidence of my betrayal lies in the trash. I won’t lay claim to it if confronted. Yet. Yet, I’m waiting for the day when I no longer care. When that day comes I’ll flaunt my unhealthy relationship with Mr. V. and brazenly chose a Snickers or Doritos with ease. E5 and B2. I’ll blatantly leave candy bar and potato chip wrappers in my wake, not even bothering to cover the crime. That day can’t be far off.
For some reason I’m liking this throw caution to the wind consumption, this eat everything in sight daring…except when it’s time to squeeze into those professional slim-cut pants or those cut-off-the-circulation panties. It’s enough constriction to go commando. When did this happen? Where was I when the health nut decided to leave town?
This Should Be Me
Well, turn the beast around and there you have kisa and me. Horse’s ass…that would be me. Beloved kisa and the jackazz. I’m angry to the point of breaking something besides my heart. I want to throw something, punch someone, hide somewhere dark and dirty. He brings things out to his car and laughs at his new I-Could-Care-Less-Attitude. I miss the heart that bled for this place. I miss the I Would Do Anything attitude. I stand back helpless and watch him pack. When he holds up a mug and asks “want this?” I want to puke. Did they beat him down that badly? Does he hate this life that much? Did I push him too hard?
I negotiated for a better life and I got it. Some may say my attempt was feeble, the response, lame. But. But, I have never wanted for more than what I need. Ever. Can I help it if I hate this stage of the game? Feeling like I crawled over a still-warm carcass to grasp the tarnished prize. Watching him walk away is getting harder everyday. I don’t even know his shoe size so how can I even think about standing in them, forget filling them.
Big Dog Bite Me
Talking at me. Everyone is talking at me. G says let’s negotiate. He has dollar signs for eyeballs and greed is in his back pocket. He thinks he can whore me out for a price. K says I’m outta here and good riddance. Middle finger raised on a gentleman’s fist. Head held proud with a fukc you behind the smile. A is offering advice as a friend yet I cannot hear what she says. My husband is offering strategy as a partner. Take ’em for all they’re worth. Don’t sell yourself short. Where have I heard that before? The head honcho is calling me dude. Am I in his back pocket? What should I do? I can’t even ask what would Jesus do without offending someone…mostly myself. The only religion that can help me now is the one called confidence. The big dog can no longer bite because that dog is me. Bigger than what I planned on, bigger than who I am right now. Big man on campus. This is what you wanted. They say its a marriage. New wife…new life, right? How many things can I go about changing in my big corner office?
He says I’m tough on people. That I expect too much and I’m pushing buttons. Better than pushing you. Did I push you? Did we throw cups of hot, scalding coffee at each other to see who ducks faster? Did we? If we did, did I win? I didn’t feel the sting of boiling brew so I must have. Big dog me. This isn’t how I wanted it to be. Everyone talking at me.
~*LunaSea*~ 