"I have a number of irrational fears," as the great Rivers Cuomo once said, "that I'd like to share with you." No rules about goats though, and no comparisons to goats, but I'll let you in on a secret: I love goats.
Because we humans tend to be the tip-top of the food chain, we sometimes forget how fragile and impermanent our lives are. Or at least I do.
OK, except for when I am stressing about how everyone and everything I know and love will die eventually, and how that could be tomorrow AND OMG whatifitistomorrow, and then I'm squeezing my cat hoping she'll make me feel better and it's all just this ugly mess.
So, yea, I personally only forget about death for small bursts between long periods of being fixated on mortality.
But my best guess is that other, more normal folks, don't necessarily spend a lot of time thinking about all the things that could kill, maim or otherwise harm them.
Allow me to enumerate (some of) my fears, circa the California Era (1985-2011)
1. Anesthesia: I know that once I go under, I'm not coming back.
2. Mountain Lions: I've never seen one, but I know that hey have bloodlust, and it's for my blood in particular.
3. Being on a Bridge During an Earthquake: Self explanatory. I know the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge is just waiting to collapse it's ass on my car, trapping me. OR WORSE … somehow knock me into the water, where I WILL DROWN SLOWLY inside my car.
4. Ticks: They all carry Lyme's Disease, and they all want to share it with me. Also, I NEED ALL MY BLOOD, which brings me to…
5. Having Blood Drawn: I NEED ALL OF MY BLOOD. Plus, I start to imagine the needle being *inside* my vein, and then I think HOLY HELL NOTHING BUT BLOOD AND BODY STUFF SHOULD BE IN THERE.
Now, those fears have not gone away in the year (!!) since I moved to Baltimore, MD.
Living out here has, however, changed me.
I am now terrified of a variety of NEW and DIFFERENT things that I never before realized I was terrified of!
1. Trees: Particularly large trees. Particularly large trees located near buildings and cars. In California, our natural disasters come in two basic forms: earthquakes and wildfires. The former are relatively infrequent, and are very rarely large enough to do much more than jostle the wall-mounted dildos you decorate your home with. The latter is likely to warn you that it's coming by sending out smoke signals (HA) and also BURNING HEAT and FLAMES of FIRE, so you have ample time to escape unscathed.
Out here though? WEATHER HAPPENS. 50 plus mph winds happen. Lightning strikes (a lot). Torrential rains pour (so much rain). And all the while? IT IS 114 degrees outside. It's the temperature of Satan's ASSHOLE and it's RAINING and BLOWING and the old man is SNORING and A TREE JUST FELL DOWN AND CRUSHED YOU BENEATH IT'S MAJESTIC GNARLED BRANCHES. Terrorist trees.
2. Power Outages: Apparently A/C is necessary to survival. After NEVER HAVING IT for 26 years, I just kinda didn't expect it to be such a BIG DEAL. But it turns out that, when it's the TEMPERATURE OF SATAN'S ASSHOLE, and a TERRORIST TREE falls and knocks down power lines, and your POWER GOES OUT… you die. Because human's aren't meant to sit around boiling in that kind of heat, period. Let alone for DAYS ON END. So, at the end of that weird Drogo or Dingo or whatever that storm was, I definitely tongue kissed the little box where you adjust the room temperature. Later on, we had a civil ceremony performed by a lesbian officiant from the Unitarian Universalist Church, because I'm from CALIFORNIA and that's HOW WE ROLL.
3. Poisonous Water Snakes: HOLY FUCK PEOPLE. THERE ARE SNAKES IN THE WATER. You know that movie, Snakes on a Plane? Well, it's like that, BUT WORSE. Fresh water snakes. Ocean snakes. Have you heard of this Water Moccasin motherfucker? It's a swimming, poisonous viper, and it's the CHUCK NORRIS of reptiles. It has one purpose: kicking your ass. OK -- so apparently this particular snake doesn't exist in MD -- but it DOES in VA and that shit is RIGHT NEXT DOOR. I'm going swimming in a steel wetsuit.
The moral of all this?
Just don't go outside.
Or be in your house.
Or car.
Or on a bridge.
Or in the wilderness.
Or near or in water.
Basically, you should probably just give up.
EDITED to add:
4. Oil Fires: Today I did something that few people will ever be able to say that they have done. I almost lit my shit on fire while trying to cook popcorn. Luckily, I escaped with just a few singed arm hairs and none of my dignity. The whole reason I was cooking popcorn on the stove top was to a. save money and b. avoid processed poison popcorn. Because I am a vain person and would rather die of cancer from microwave popcorn than lose my face in an oil fire, I will no longer be cooking popcorn on my stove top. Or anything on my stove top. I think pop tarts have all essential vitamins and minerals...right? Shit...I'll just take 2 multi vitamins and live on ice cream.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Friday, June 22, 2012
Adult Swim
Adult swim. Two words that, during youthful days of imaginative play and endless hope, were as soul crushing as any you could ever dream up.
Have you ever accidentally stepped on a firefly, only to watch it crumble and sparkle as it dies it's elegant ass death? Fireflies, summer manifest in an insect: glorious, beautiful, free, shiny and short-lived.
Well, adult swim felt like someone was stepping on a firefly on purpose. And you were the firefly, crumbling beside your purple fun-noodle, glowing with the white-hot heat of rage.
Adults were always allowed in the pool, so why did they also get an appointed time where you weren't? Begrudgingly, you would pull yourself up the side of the pool, feeling the hot stones of the concrete sink into your palms, and scratching your knees against the pool's fiberglass side. Moping, you would drag your feet over to the patch of grass where your family had set up for the day, all the while tugging at your persistent bathing suit wedgie. Sorrowfully, you would sit down on your Little Mermaid towel and stare down at the pool full of adults with eyes of Pure Hatred.
And then, at some point, we all grow up (or at the very least, we age) and become part of the "adult swim" demographic. And, if you're anything like me, you're desperate to go take a dip in the public pool. But you're not so desperate that you would dare brave the throngs of small children in order to do so. And there are small children in mind-boggling numbers; they form sticky-fingered mobs, pee in the pool, and glare at you with Pure Hatred when it's time for "adult swim." It's frightening and unhygienic.
What about if the pool has swim lanes, you might ask? Bitch. Please. Do I look like I want to exercise right now? It's 90-190 degrees outside, it might even be too much effort for me to get to the pool, let alone to get there and decide I'm going to swim 50 laps because HEALTH and WELLNESS. No. I want to float about at my leisure with a goddamn margarita in hand. I will also accept a pina colada. If I wanted to exercise, I'd dance around to some Wii Fitness game in my living room. With the blinds drawn, because I'm too fat from all those margaritas and all that time not doing lap swims. Neighbors do not want to see that.
So clearly, while I was driving around in my hoopty with no A/C, I started to think about "adult swim." I also started to hallucinate because HOLY GOD it gets hot out here on the Atlantic Seaboard, and I am a Bay Area girl who can only tolerate temperatures up to around 80 degrees before slipping into a coma.
Where was I ? Ah yes... Adult swim is a metaphor for the entire crap-ass situation we call adulthood. I mean, some people call it that. I don't. I call it: pretending to have my shit together, despite not even knowing what that means. The adult world is like this massive pool, spanning continents, full of awesome stuff like: waterfalls, castles, legal prostitution, you name it! And we, the adults of the world, only get a few measly minutes of "adult swim" time in that pool. The rest of the time, we're responsible for making sure the pool stays clean, feeding the inhabitants of the pool (self included), and paying all the goddamn water bills for the pool.
When you're a kid, life is all about riding atop ice cream clouds on sugar ponies, and even when life sucks: it's still your time to swim, 90% of the time. As an adult, your moments of joy are meted out to you in small doses. You work 40, 50, 60 hours a week and your reward? 30 minutes of "adult swim" (e.g.: watching the Real Housewives of Bombay Beach cook meth on their camping stoves). Also: hemorrhoids. So the truth is, ADULT SWIM SUCKS as a kid, and it sucks as an adult. No matter what age you are, you feel like you're a sparkly little lightning bug being stepped on by a a thousand feet.
SWEET MOTHER OF ALL THAT IS HOLY.
What I wouldn't give right now for 10 delicious tacos and a private pool/cabana.
But I'm in Baltimore, so I'll have to settle for some crappy tacos and my cat-hair-covered couch.
Have you ever accidentally stepped on a firefly, only to watch it crumble and sparkle as it dies it's elegant ass death? Fireflies, summer manifest in an insect: glorious, beautiful, free, shiny and short-lived.
Well, adult swim felt like someone was stepping on a firefly on purpose. And you were the firefly, crumbling beside your purple fun-noodle, glowing with the white-hot heat of rage.
Adults were always allowed in the pool, so why did they also get an appointed time where you weren't? Begrudgingly, you would pull yourself up the side of the pool, feeling the hot stones of the concrete sink into your palms, and scratching your knees against the pool's fiberglass side. Moping, you would drag your feet over to the patch of grass where your family had set up for the day, all the while tugging at your persistent bathing suit wedgie. Sorrowfully, you would sit down on your Little Mermaid towel and stare down at the pool full of adults with eyes of Pure Hatred.
And then, at some point, we all grow up (or at the very least, we age) and become part of the "adult swim" demographic. And, if you're anything like me, you're desperate to go take a dip in the public pool. But you're not so desperate that you would dare brave the throngs of small children in order to do so. And there are small children in mind-boggling numbers; they form sticky-fingered mobs, pee in the pool, and glare at you with Pure Hatred when it's time for "adult swim." It's frightening and unhygienic.
What about if the pool has swim lanes, you might ask? Bitch. Please. Do I look like I want to exercise right now? It's 90-190 degrees outside, it might even be too much effort for me to get to the pool, let alone to get there and decide I'm going to swim 50 laps because HEALTH and WELLNESS. No. I want to float about at my leisure with a goddamn margarita in hand. I will also accept a pina colada. If I wanted to exercise, I'd dance around to some Wii Fitness game in my living room. With the blinds drawn, because I'm too fat from all those margaritas and all that time not doing lap swims. Neighbors do not want to see that.
So clearly, while I was driving around in my hoopty with no A/C, I started to think about "adult swim." I also started to hallucinate because HOLY GOD it gets hot out here on the Atlantic Seaboard, and I am a Bay Area girl who can only tolerate temperatures up to around 80 degrees before slipping into a coma.
Where was I ? Ah yes... Adult swim is a metaphor for the entire crap-ass situation we call adulthood. I mean, some people call it that. I don't. I call it: pretending to have my shit together, despite not even knowing what that means. The adult world is like this massive pool, spanning continents, full of awesome stuff like: waterfalls, castles, legal prostitution, you name it! And we, the adults of the world, only get a few measly minutes of "adult swim" time in that pool. The rest of the time, we're responsible for making sure the pool stays clean, feeding the inhabitants of the pool (self included), and paying all the goddamn water bills for the pool.
When you're a kid, life is all about riding atop ice cream clouds on sugar ponies, and even when life sucks: it's still your time to swim, 90% of the time. As an adult, your moments of joy are meted out to you in small doses. You work 40, 50, 60 hours a week and your reward? 30 minutes of "adult swim" (e.g.: watching the Real Housewives of Bombay Beach cook meth on their camping stoves). Also: hemorrhoids. So the truth is, ADULT SWIM SUCKS as a kid, and it sucks as an adult. No matter what age you are, you feel like you're a sparkly little lightning bug being stepped on by a a thousand feet.
SWEET MOTHER OF ALL THAT IS HOLY.
What I wouldn't give right now for 10 delicious tacos and a private pool/cabana.
But I'm in Baltimore, so I'll have to settle for some crappy tacos and my cat-hair-covered couch.
Monday, June 4, 2012
ME.
Indefatigable.
Loving.
Curious.
Creative.
Querulous.
Passionate.
Introspective.
Humorous.
Languorous.
Spastic.
Inconsistent.
Reflective.
Nostalgic.
Friendly.
Worrisome.
Paranoid.
Alert.
Nervous.
Ashamed.
Hopeful.
Hopeless.
Spirited.
Inertial.
Humble.
Unconfident.
Spiritual.
Irreligious.
Unmotivated.
Inconspicuous.
Conspicuous.
Driven.
INDEFATIGABLE.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Calistoga
Cross posted on my Tumblr:
The devil was headed to Calistoga; his mare’s chestnut belly, full with foal, near dragging through the rocks and dirt. Straining under the weight of man and child, she plods slowly, kicking up a veil of dust. The man’s left eye twitches as a fat, summer fly breezes past his crusted eyelashes; it is a queer eye, the color undefinable and always changing, yet it is constant in its coldness. The man’s spurs dig into the mare’s flesh and she brays in pain, but the sound is attenuated by the thick foam around her lips. Had she brayed much louder, the man thinks, I would have cut into her with more than just my spurs.
Live oaks, stout and wide, reach out with many gnarled arms and cast misshapen shadows over golden grasses. The man casts a disinterested glance about with his strange, cruel eyes. Nearby, a beetle scuttles through burrs and weeds, looking for dew to drink. Spittle, brown and grainy with the juice of tobacco leaves, trembles behind the man’s lower lip. Like a tumor, the sluice shifts from side-to-side before it is expelled onto the dry, cracked ground. Swept up in the fluid, the unfortunate beetle’s quest for refreshment concluded.
The beetle’s legs hammer out a startled rhythm. With each successful withdrawal of limb from the gelatinous ooze, another is subsumed beneath. The man carries on, leaving the beetle to struggle as if trapped in quicksand: hopelessly. A mirage on the horizon, both the beetle and the scum will burn off quickly in the Indian Summer heat. Somewhere, a small bird hears the beetle’s helpless flailing: a carrion call on the wind.
The devil was headed to Calistoga; his mare’s chestnut belly, full with foal, near dragging through the rocks and dirt. Straining under the weight of man and child, she plods slowly, kicking up a veil of dust. The man’s left eye twitches as a fat, summer fly breezes past his crusted eyelashes; it is a queer eye, the color undefinable and always changing, yet it is constant in its coldness. The man’s spurs dig into the mare’s flesh and she brays in pain, but the sound is attenuated by the thick foam around her lips. Had she brayed much louder, the man thinks, I would have cut into her with more than just my spurs.
Live oaks, stout and wide, reach out with many gnarled arms and cast misshapen shadows over golden grasses. The man casts a disinterested glance about with his strange, cruel eyes. Nearby, a beetle scuttles through burrs and weeds, looking for dew to drink. Spittle, brown and grainy with the juice of tobacco leaves, trembles behind the man’s lower lip. Like a tumor, the sluice shifts from side-to-side before it is expelled onto the dry, cracked ground. Swept up in the fluid, the unfortunate beetle’s quest for refreshment concluded.
The beetle’s legs hammer out a startled rhythm. With each successful withdrawal of limb from the gelatinous ooze, another is subsumed beneath. The man carries on, leaving the beetle to struggle as if trapped in quicksand: hopelessly. A mirage on the horizon, both the beetle and the scum will burn off quickly in the Indian Summer heat. Somewhere, a small bird hears the beetle’s helpless flailing: a carrion call on the wind.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
I Don't Do Shit
This is a blog about friendships, insecurities, and living in the moment. What it is NOT is an excuse. I am trying to improve myself by understanding myself; so while that does necessitate a degree of explanation in order to establish the *why* of my behaviors, it doesn't propose that the why in any way excuses them.
I am a huge Debbie Downer. On Friday, I am already dreading Sunday. Why? Because Monday follows Sunday, which means work, getting up early, going to sleep early, and generally not being able to do Whatever The Hell I Want (WTHIW). Honestly? I sometimes check out of my work week on Wednesday, because its basically Thursday, which is BASICALLY Friday, which is the first day of the weekend. So, as long as I work hard Monday and Tuesday, it's TOTALLY cool to slack off and be a lazy douche for the rest of the week. Logic.
However, even when I have unlimited time to pursue my interests and pleasures, I mostly sleep and zombie wander through life; if I don't have plans, why should I get up? Maybe you see the inherent contradiction in what I have laid out here, and maybe you don't. For those of you who do not, allow me to explicate further: I live my life dreading pre-planned time where I cannot do whatever I please, and when I have free time, I don't do shit. Contradiction, I has it.
For whatever reason, I procrastinate on living because there is always tomorrow; but by tomorrow, there's never enough time. I am perpetually worrying about tomorrow at the loss of today. And tomorrow? Tomorrow I'm nostalgic for yesterday. For some, this might not be more than a simple personality quirk, but for me it has had devastating repercussions.
When I see the voicemail symbol on my Android phone, I panic. The voicemail symbol indicates that in this moment someone is expecting me to be present. Nine times out of ten, I can't even bring myself to listen to the voicemail because the act of listening makes it real. Once I've listened, I can't excuse my delayed response by saying "I didn't listen to my voicemail until […]" because I'll know that I have. Being that I am so thoroughly afraid of living in the moment, of follow through today, of being held responsible for *anything*, the act of returning a call is about as daunting as traveling over Niagra Falls in a wooden tub.
I feel so insecure when I talk to people on the phone, so instead of calling them back, I tell myself I'll call them "tomorrow." Tomorrow becomes a week from tomorrow, becomes a month, becomes several months, and then it's just too awkward to bridge the gap. My delayed response results in no response, which is very damaging to a friendship, because no friend wants to reach out if you're never there for them. For me, there is no today because I am afraid of being present, and tomorrows are infinite.
Some of this insecurity can be traced back to the integration of technology into my social life. Beginning with AOL 3.0, I discovered the confidence that comes with conversational prep time. I could chat or e-mail without any feelings of insecurity, because I had the time and space to properly think through all of my inquiries and responses! None of the stress of one-on-one conversation, of responding in time, of "sounding" stupid. Of course, none of this occurred to me in 1994 when I was 9 years old; but it definitely occurs to me now, and has been apparent for many years.
When I am writing, I am confident in my intellect and wit. I can delete, I can re-word, I can take my time. There is no need to put off until tomorrow, because there's no stress in performing today. For the most part, I am able to live my electronic life in the moment.
So much about this is problematic. The most problematic aspect? My friends are geniuses. My best friend, J, is not only a genius: she is the most gorgeous genius I know. Over time, I came to feel more and more that I could not match the intellect of the folks I had surrounded myself with. I became increasingly withdrawn, dwelling more on my relative inadequacies than the awesomeness of our friendships. This fit well with my inability to live in the moment; I pushed things away, farther down the road, to avoid facing my own pain. Of course, when I actually talked to any of my friends, it was never awkward or weird: it has always been mostly in my head. I wanted more than anything to "be there" for my friends, whenever, wherever they needed me. In reality, I spent most of my time thinking about this and little of my time acting on it. Huge, painful changes happened in J's life, and they were exceptionally frightening to me. I put off phone calls, I ignored voicemails, and I hoped I could communicate my love telepathically. For future reference: no, I am not a telepath. That shit didn't work.
And it still doesn't work.
This year, I want to try and overcome my insecurity and my low self-esteem. Moreover, I want to be present and communicative with my friends. Year after year I have allowed us to grow apart in order to avoid thinking about today and thinking about my lack of confidence.
Eventually, though…there are no tomorrows. Eventually, there are no friends. All the positive energy in the world can't replace being present.
And so I vow to stop thinking about how great our friendships were, and to start thinking about how to make them incredible now.
No. Not to start *thinking* about how to make them incredible: to start DOING what it takes to be a real friend.
Here's to today!
I am a huge Debbie Downer. On Friday, I am already dreading Sunday. Why? Because Monday follows Sunday, which means work, getting up early, going to sleep early, and generally not being able to do Whatever The Hell I Want (WTHIW). Honestly? I sometimes check out of my work week on Wednesday, because its basically Thursday, which is BASICALLY Friday, which is the first day of the weekend. So, as long as I work hard Monday and Tuesday, it's TOTALLY cool to slack off and be a lazy douche for the rest of the week. Logic.
However, even when I have unlimited time to pursue my interests and pleasures, I mostly sleep and zombie wander through life; if I don't have plans, why should I get up? Maybe you see the inherent contradiction in what I have laid out here, and maybe you don't. For those of you who do not, allow me to explicate further: I live my life dreading pre-planned time where I cannot do whatever I please, and when I have free time, I don't do shit. Contradiction, I has it.
For whatever reason, I procrastinate on living because there is always tomorrow; but by tomorrow, there's never enough time. I am perpetually worrying about tomorrow at the loss of today. And tomorrow? Tomorrow I'm nostalgic for yesterday. For some, this might not be more than a simple personality quirk, but for me it has had devastating repercussions.
When I see the voicemail symbol on my Android phone, I panic. The voicemail symbol indicates that in this moment someone is expecting me to be present. Nine times out of ten, I can't even bring myself to listen to the voicemail because the act of listening makes it real. Once I've listened, I can't excuse my delayed response by saying "I didn't listen to my voicemail until […]" because I'll know that I have. Being that I am so thoroughly afraid of living in the moment, of follow through today, of being held responsible for *anything*, the act of returning a call is about as daunting as traveling over Niagra Falls in a wooden tub.
I feel so insecure when I talk to people on the phone, so instead of calling them back, I tell myself I'll call them "tomorrow." Tomorrow becomes a week from tomorrow, becomes a month, becomes several months, and then it's just too awkward to bridge the gap. My delayed response results in no response, which is very damaging to a friendship, because no friend wants to reach out if you're never there for them. For me, there is no today because I am afraid of being present, and tomorrows are infinite.
Some of this insecurity can be traced back to the integration of technology into my social life. Beginning with AOL 3.0, I discovered the confidence that comes with conversational prep time. I could chat or e-mail without any feelings of insecurity, because I had the time and space to properly think through all of my inquiries and responses! None of the stress of one-on-one conversation, of responding in time, of "sounding" stupid. Of course, none of this occurred to me in 1994 when I was 9 years old; but it definitely occurs to me now, and has been apparent for many years.
When I am writing, I am confident in my intellect and wit. I can delete, I can re-word, I can take my time. There is no need to put off until tomorrow, because there's no stress in performing today. For the most part, I am able to live my electronic life in the moment.
So much about this is problematic. The most problematic aspect? My friends are geniuses. My best friend, J, is not only a genius: she is the most gorgeous genius I know. Over time, I came to feel more and more that I could not match the intellect of the folks I had surrounded myself with. I became increasingly withdrawn, dwelling more on my relative inadequacies than the awesomeness of our friendships. This fit well with my inability to live in the moment; I pushed things away, farther down the road, to avoid facing my own pain. Of course, when I actually talked to any of my friends, it was never awkward or weird: it has always been mostly in my head. I wanted more than anything to "be there" for my friends, whenever, wherever they needed me. In reality, I spent most of my time thinking about this and little of my time acting on it. Huge, painful changes happened in J's life, and they were exceptionally frightening to me. I put off phone calls, I ignored voicemails, and I hoped I could communicate my love telepathically. For future reference: no, I am not a telepath. That shit didn't work.
And it still doesn't work.
This year, I want to try and overcome my insecurity and my low self-esteem. Moreover, I want to be present and communicative with my friends. Year after year I have allowed us to grow apart in order to avoid thinking about today and thinking about my lack of confidence.
Eventually, though…there are no tomorrows. Eventually, there are no friends. All the positive energy in the world can't replace being present.
And so I vow to stop thinking about how great our friendships were, and to start thinking about how to make them incredible now.
No. Not to start *thinking* about how to make them incredible: to start DOING what it takes to be a real friend.
Here's to today!
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Morbid
Sometimes I find myself stuck in a morbid frame of mind. Usually, this can be blamed on my Aunt Flo; she always comes by for like A WEEK and she has no problem inconveniencing me or making me feel fat. That said, this is one of those times. And everywhere I look, there is something that makes me sad, or there is something that makes me think of death, and then I GET sad.
For instance, I was spooning my cat Ember this afternoon, on the couch, underneath a blanket; like you do when you're unemployed, lazy, and your Aunt Flo is visiting. There we were, the two of us, the world's Greatest Lazy Assholes.
Ember was purring insanely loudly, and I could feel it vibrating in my tummy. It was a warm, happy feeling.
Then I thought to myself, self: OMG, what will you do when she dies or has to be put down one day?! You're going to die! How will you survive it?! You might be in your mid to late 30s by then! You could be married! You could have a KID. She will have been with you since Berkeley! OMG WHY MUST SHE DIE ONE DAY?!!?!?!?!
That's what I did. I went and took this beautiful, cozy, love moment…and turned it into that.
And I do this a lot.
Like, the other day… wait… let me transport you there:
It's 68 degrees out, the sun is shining, the sky is blue, birds are chirping, and you totally haven't stepped in ANY dogshit or gum. It's THAT kind of day. And you're walking and smiling and every building looks like it's made of graham crackers and marshmallows. You're practically stopping to gnaw on the buildings, just in case they actually ARE made of graham crackers and marshmallows, in which case you definitely need to be eating those bitches.
Then, if you're me, you think: I love it here. It's so beautiful. I could see me and Adam buying a home here and making our lives here.
THEN, if you're me, it goes here: BUT, omg, how could I ever be that far from my mom?! And my friends?! And my sister?! What if my mom gets sick?! What if my mom is going to die, and I'm here, and I don't get to see her ever again?!
And then that mood is totally ruined.
So you go home, and you stare at your computer for three hours, drink some lemon tea, and stare at your computer screen for three more hours.
Because that's called coping.
And when you're a lady, sometimes that's a lot to cope with.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
It's a TRAP: Dating the DSM* Manual Way! (Pt. 9)
If you've gotten this far, major props. I am amazed at how long this story is, particularly given that it only spans about 1.5 years. Writing this has been tremendously cathartic for me, and has helped me to further clarify that I didn't do anything wrong except love too much. That is, I spent a long time being told there was something wrong with me, that I was ruining things, and I definitely took a lot of that to heart. I'm still incredibly sensitive to being told that I am overreacting, which makes it hard to have an honest conversation about when I am ACTUALLY overreacting (I can do that, just like everyone else). I get defensive, I get scared, and I withdraw into myself when someone tries to indicate that I am in ANY way being ridiculous. It's something I carry with me, and it's something I hope to work on.
That said: EG (remember, Ex-Girlfriend) got pregnant. Yup, you heard me right. That "one" (who knows, coulda been more) night of lust while I was crying in FWBs bed led to an unwanted pregnancy. [side note] At the time, I had a lot of anger toward EG, and that anger was sorely misplaced. Now, I feel very sorry for her and realize that she may have received an even more RAW deal than I had. Sure, she was not a very kind or good person. She had been cruel to some of my closest friends, and even Mr. Kite had described her as mean, even vicious.[/side note] But she was pregnant! With his child! That's some serious business.
According to Mr. Kite, she was using this as relationship leverage. Be with me, she said, and I will abort this child. Don't be with me? I'll make your life hell. Let's be honest: I don't believe that, I don't believe it one bit. I don't care how horrible you are, I know there are very few women in this world who would actually use a pregnancy as leverage. That shit is messed up. Is it possible? Yes. But Mr. Kite lies like he's being honest -- lying is his world, it's his CURRENCY, it's how he carries on with his dishonesty and his betrayal as if it's all good.
He also used this pregnancy as leverage with me. He told me that, as soon as things were "taken care of" with her, he was going to be ready for a relationship with me. I kind of bought it, but at this point I was definitely becoming more skeptical and less interested. Oh, and jaded. I was totally jaded.
In the interest of speeding this story along: she had a miscarriage. And he did not want to be with me. Or her. Despite the notes of love she left strewn about (what was now) his apartment. And despite my infinite patience and trust. What he wanted was to go on OK Cupid dates, like any other sane and single man. What he wanted was for us all to GO AWAY. And after a little bit of trying (hey, he said as soon as it was over we'd be together! Right?) I gave up. I moved on.
He still held some sway over me, some magical power. I tried to be friends with him. I tried to include him in my life. I don't even know why now...because when I have run into him in the recent past (in the last 4 years) I have found him so completely pathetic, false, and annoying. He tries too hard with everyone, and he tries too hard to convince himself that he's AWESOME. I finally stopped even remotely attempting friendship when I re-connected with a person (that's a great story, for another time) I'd been extremely into, the person who is now my boyfriend, and with whom I've been ridiculously happy for almost 4 years now.
When I started "dating" A, Mr. Kite was furious. Here's a direct quote from an e-mail he sent me during that time:
"And I finally reached this place, the mental place where yo were
hoping I would get to, so we could work things out mutually, this
place where I'm willing to actually talk about things and work through
them, a place where I'm willing to work to be happy, and you're dating
someone a thousand miles away who looks like abe lincoln. And you
like to tell me about it all the time. And tell me you're emotional
because you miss him. And tell me how I could never be anything for
you because I'm not the person you thought you knew. And tell me I'm
not a good person. And tell me all these things, all the time, every
day, about what and how I am that make me want to just run away to a
place where peple don't know me because obviouslty I'm haeed here.e" (sic, clearly)
Manipulative much? He insults my relationship by trying to insult how A looks (he does resemble Honest Abe somewhat - but what's wrong with that?), the distance (at the time, 3,000 miles), etc. But the most amazing part of it is his attempt at being the victim. His attempt to make me feel bad for his current state of loneliness and isolation. As if he didn't create this world for himself. And in his mind, he didn't.
To this day he tells people that I was crazy, that these stories are inaccurate. I know that there are two sides to everything, but cheating, lying, etc...those aren't matters of opinion. Those are his actions. The subjective is only how they caused me to lose my mind, to hate myself, and to become a groveling mess. Because I loved him, and I was prepared to do anything for love.
And he still preys on women like that. Not long after A had moved out to California to be with me, Mr. Kite started to casually date another, younger woman. She was crazy about him, but when Mr. Kite was asked about his relationship with her, he would say that it was nothing. In fact, during a time while he was telling her she was his girlfriend, he messaged me asking: "If you and A ever break up, do you think we could get back together?" I shit you not. Here he was asking me if I'd consider giving him a beventeenth chance and, If you asked the other girl: they were together and in love.
Soon thereafter, he began seeing another woman in San Francisco and even moved in with her. He kept the two of them separate, and kept the two of them under the illusion that they were his one-and-only. Almost everyone knew what he was doing, and some of us even told the young one what was up, but as I know from experience: you have to figure this shit out for yourself. And eventually they did, but being under his spell they chose to try an open relationship. In the end, that didn't work, and everything exploded on him once again. Kind of. He's still with the younger one, who probably feels like she Won! He chose her! I hope so, so hard, that she figures him out sooner rather than later. But I know from conversations with her that it's unlikely. He's already done about 10 times more awful stuff to her than he did to me, and she still swoons for him.
I am convinced now that Mr. Kite is either an A.) Psychopath or suffers from B.) Narcissistic Personality Disorder (recently removed from the DSM, actually). Here's a brief on these two diagnoses that I proffer:
A.) Psychopath: a mental disorder characterized primarily by a lack of empathy and remorse, shallow emotions, egocentricity, and deceptiveness. Psychopaths are highly prone to antisocial behavior and abusive treatment of others, and are very disproportionately responsible for violent crime. Though lacking empathy and emotional depth, they often manage to pass themselves off as average individuals by feigning emotions and lying about their past. (wikipedia)
B.) Narcissistic Personality Disorder:
A pervasive pattern of grandiosity (in fantasy or behavior), need for admiration, and lack of empathy, beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by five (or more) of the following:
--Has a grandiose sense of self-importance (e.g., exaggerates achievements and talents, expects to be recognized as superior without commensurate achievements)
--Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love
--Believes that he or she is "special" and unique and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people (or institutions)
--Requires excessive admiration
--Has a sense of entitlement, i.e., unreasonable expectations of especially favorable treatment or automatic compliance with his or her expectations
--Is interpersonally exploitative, i.e., takes advantage of others to achieve his or her own ends
--Lacks empathy: is unwilling to recognize or identify with the feelings and needs of others
--Is often envious of others or believes others are envious of him or her
--Shows arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes
I leave it up to you to figure out where he fits. Honestly, the two are so similar that it's hard to know. A few things are very clear to me: he lacks empathy, his emotions are shallow, he is arrogant, he often makes grandiose/unrealistic business plans and does not follow through, and he is incredibly interpersonally exploitative.
I will never, ever, let someone exploit me like that again.
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