Archive for May, 2011

Whining (just a bit)

I think I am on the verge of some major changes in my life & lifestyle and I have literally NO ONE to talk with.  I’m considering sending V an e-mail begging her to call me just so I can run my thoughts by a rational, caring person.  Mom is out of town (but I’d rather not get into these things with her anyway).

Some things keep coming up in therapy that it is getting harder and harder for me to ignore.  The fact that I have actually been willing to talk about them with even my therapist is a huge step, but because I am talking about them it is impossible for me to pretend they aren’t issues that need addressing.  I’ll be honest, this is pretty agonizing.  I feel like I’m about to burst and the one friend I have in this town that I feel I can be “real” with and who will understand what’s going on is still in several levels of denial herself and can’t be counted on to be consistently “real” with me.  And I’m not gonna show my heart to someone if I can’t be sure they will at least be level with me.

Fuck it, I’m sending that e-mail.


Yesterday I started my new homeopathic treatment.  It is called thuja occidentalis, which is really just the latin name for the plant it comes from — some kind of cedar tree.  Silicea, which is what I was taking before, came from flint or rocks of some kind.  I like the change already if only because I feel more comfortable using a plant derivative as a remedy than I do using a rock derivative.

We shall see how it goes.

I have decided that our landlord is a pathological liar.  Anytime we have some small maintenance issue he disappears and doesn’t return our calls for days and then finally when he gets back to us he has one of those excuses that you can’t possibly call bullshit on.  Like, “My wife’s grandmother passed away so we had to fly to such-and-such for the funeral” — as if that’s a legitimate excuse for not freaking calling us back.   Most recently, we have been calling him for the last 3 or 4 weeks about the lawn.  It is spring, and the grass is growing fast, and he is responsible for keeping the grass mowed.  After a month+ of steady growth parts of the lawn were well over 3′ tall.  I was about ready to file a tall grass complaint on my own residence so at least he’d get a fine or something.  Finally yesterday I sent him a text message — the tenants in the other unit of the duplex informed us that he accepts texts — that said “please call at your earliest possible convenience” or something like that.  And the motherfucker called me like TWO MINUTES thereafter.

— Let me digress for a moment to say that this man has never, EVER returned one of my calls.  After the 2nd message I left on his voicemail about the lawn, he called BF with promises to take care of it.  But not me.  Even when I first noticed this place was up for rent, when we were looking for a new place, I called and called, left I don’t know how many messages, and he never once returned my calls or answered the phone.  When BF calls, the landlord sometimes answers and at least calls back when BF leaves a voicemail.  I haven’t decided if he’s intimidated by women, or just an asshole, or what.  But it’s pissing me off. —

Back to the lawn story.  He talks really really fast — we think he’s a cokehead, honestly.  He says he’ll be there tomorrow (today) to take care of the lawn.  And here’s his excuse for not returning even ONE of my goddamn calls and leaving us completely in the dark for the last 3 weeks:  His grandma lives in ALABAMA where all the TORNADOES struck and he had to go down and help her out.  Dude.  I’m not saying I think for sure he’s lying.  But seriously WHAT ARE THE FUCKING ODDS???  And you can’t call bullshit on that.  Cuz if it’s true, then you are left feeling like a big dick.  But that doesn’t excuse the fact that he gave us no indication of what was going on for WEEKS.

In other news, last night Roommate friended me on Facebook.  Wtf.

Childhood treasures

I just finished watching the recent movie based on the C.S. Lewis story “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.”  Now, The Chronicles of Narnia were some of my favorite stories, and I bear no small amount of nostalgia, not least because they are tied up with all kinds of childhood memories.  My parents read these books aloud to us.  I remember the setting vividly.  Hair wet because I just got out of the bath, in an oversized T-shirt that served as a nightgown, curled against my dad’s side as he read a chapter or two at a time, then it was time for bed.  No movie can compare with that memory.  And, true to the trend started in the last movie, they took great liberties with the plot and cut out nearly everything remotely humorous.  Too many special effects to fit in, not enough time for humor.  But now I’m sounding cynical.  It is definitely one of the things I remembered and loved about the books though — these moments of levity!

After I cut the TV off I found myself thinking, “I wonder what Roommate thought of this movie?” Maybe it’s because we lived together for a semester and a half, but I have this recurring delusion that I could ask her something, and she could be emotionally honest in her response.  That we could meet as equals. The fact is that I can almost hear what she would have to say about it.  The words don’t matter, but the tone, the tone is so familiar.  Not really condescending — I don’t think she was ever condescending to me — but knowing.  Studied.  Didactic.

I had this feeling, even though the period of our cohabitation was during the front end of my emotional collapse, that we had this connection, that we were “friends” that would stay connected even after she moved out and I left school.  She was important to me.  So when I find myself thinking, “what would Roommate say about such-and-such?” it strikes this poignant, bittersweet note within me.  I’m not very good at staying connected with people, but with her I really did try.  Even until recently I threw myself at her.  I even tried to get her attention by being willing to read her novel-in-progress.  After the second bulk e-mail to everyone whose e-mail address she has access to, I started to feel just insulted.  I can’t be bothered trying to have a friend who only wants a beta.  I’m worth more than that.

I still feel a lot of sadness when I allow myself to access it, but it’s sort of like being sad that spring is gone, or that a favorite T-shirt is too raggedy to keep.  There’s really nothing to be done about it but accept, sigh, and move on.

V — my other great love — is far away in many ways.  I never realized it when we were best friends, but since we graduated high school I have felt…. less than.  I have recalled so many times that she helped me, shielded me from my own pretensions, guided me to a well-reasoned solution but somehow let me feel like it was my own process.  In fact I really don’t know her at all.  I never went inside her house — something I always resented a little, despite her protestations that it wasn’t fit to be seen — never paid enough attention to who she was, what her dreams and aspirations were.  I have no idea what her family was like, outside of occasional comments about her older sister.  In short, we were not the intimate friends I felt that we were.  I felt that we were intimate because she became a part of me, she had an enthusiasm, a patience for the supercilious, sarcastic, shy thing that I was.

Talking about this is really making me teary.  I try very hard not to regret the past.  I know I cannot change what’s past.  But I sometimes wonder, if I had been just a little kinder, just a little less self-centered, if I had lashed out less.  If I hadn’t been so broken.  Maybe she wouldn’t have gone away.  Maybe I would have been able to stay near her a little longer, grow just a little more into something I respected.   Something more like her.

We used to joke about having a place together.  We used to joke that she would marry my brother so we could really be sisters.  There’s no becoming a child again.  Those sentiments, however beautiful, would not play out in reality and I know that.  I wonder sometimes how I could have had such a connection when I was so otherwise incapable of connecting.  And so desperate to do so.  These friends I have had over the years, they have been such gifts to me.  Each unique, comfortable, hilarious, and with each parting sadness.  Every change in our lives, large or small, requires some small amount of grieving for the loss of what was.  I think maybe I never finished, or never allowed myself to admit what I was grieving.  Too embarrassed, or simply no forum for such an admission.

It’s late, and I still need to shower before bed.  A little black kitty is curled up behind my laptop.  The ceiling fan gently pushes cool air onto my arms.  The sound of outside comes through the open window.  I have my own beautiful things now.  Even though they are not the friend I so greatly desire, I can’t pretend these things aren’t worth loving.

It’s officially a “depressed” day.  In the 11+ hours that I have been conscious, I have been listless, self-pitying, unmotivated, unproductive, I spent an hour or more in my car — I decided I didn’t want to drive anywhere after getting in with the intention of “driving around.”  The neighbor’s car pulled up and I thought, “please don’t see me, or if you do please ignore me,” but he said “You OK?” in the casualest, friendliest tone that after I assured him I was fine and he went away I burst into tears.

It is impossible to be anything but depressed on days like this.

I know, some part of me knows, that when I wake up tomorrow I will probably feel fine.  I will get ready for work following my usual routine and I will have a normal day at work and it will be like this day never happened.  I feel psychotic sometimes because of this.  What am I supposed to believe??  The feelings of today are absolutely real and intense and yet, once the alarm goes off tomorrow morning I will be “normal me” or “other me” or whatever I want to call it.  The me that believes that I can work myself out of these moods.  The me that experiences days like this has a lot of trouble believing that.

I suppose it’s something like Tara Brach describes where, instead of tensing up and fighting the feelings you just let them flow through you.  Where when I’m depressed my inclination is to curl up into as tight a ball as possible, like I’m trying to hold myself together.  So maybe what I should actually do is relax.  Uncurl myself, lie flat, or stand and throw my arms out in a movement completely opposite from the slow tense curling I do by nature.  How the hell am I supposed to even remember to consider such a thing when my emotions are having some kind of seizure??  Like an emotional Charlie Horse.  Ha!

While I realize the day isn’t over and I still have the opportunity to try this out, it’s easy to use the fact that it’s late in the day as an excuse not to bother with it.  What would I do, anyway.  I don’t even want to leave this room.  If I wanted to go outside I would have to walk past where BF is watching the Sunday night cartoons, probably trying desperately to pretend his girlfriend is not having another one of her depressive breakdowns in the bedroom.  The lack of support from him is another matter, and one I would rather explore when I’m more “normal me” and less “Olivia De Havilland in Snake Pit.”

Sometimes I wish we didn’t have a TV in the house.  But then, I wish a lot of things.