I just posted this photo on Facebook but it’s still making me chuckle so it’s going here too:
This is my current mood trying on bikinis to wear in LA:
I love being my age; I hate the bit of extra weight that comes with it.
I am convinced that what I eat and how I process food is as much connected to my spiritual/energy state as it is to my emotional state and general love of all things pasta. So I’ve been noodling (get it!) around on the internet looking for alternative solutions to living solely on salads, which I do enjoy, but I am equally fond of wine and a life full of friends and family gathered around kitchen stoves and tables full of food to be able to buckle down enough to easily float back to my 25 year old waif weight.
Sigh…I sincerely miss those bird arms and bitchy thighs that would never deign to touch one another. But I didn’t appreciate them when I had them so I gotta just keep moving forward.
Abraham-Hicks talks about the vortex all the time, and that if we are in the vortex we automatically process in a healthy way. I still haven’t quite sorted out the vortex for myself. And honestly, I already know I’m healthy. I merely wish to be a little less Midwestern healthy and more neurotic fancy city lady skinny.
I happened upon this video that feels worth sharing. I am not Jewish and some of what this lovely woman espouses does not speak to my mentality or lifestyle. I don’t agree that an animal’s highest destiny is to be consumed and thereby become one with humans at the top of the food chain. And it has never occurred to me to consider dressing modestly. But she is smart, she has a warm, gentle energy and this is good advice. I love what she has to say about savoring bites, about eating to energize, and about being more conscious as we are eating. This makes more sense to me than deprivation, which I will never be able to master.
So maybe some of this will speak to some of you as well. Perhaps when I get back from Cali we can discuss the finer points over a mountain of lasagna and a few bottles of chianti. Until then, l’chaim! Or something like that.
So many random things to talk about! I’m kind of bored of the deep stuff, so I’ll tell you a tale about the dating scene in NYC.
I will get a teensy bit serious for a moment, though, to say I’ve been sick for four days with a sore throat and sore tongue (?) that is now kind of drifting into a mild cough. And I am convinced that it is purely a mind/energy disturbance.
Fortunately and unfortunately, I live in a city where there is always something happening and I work in the center of those happenings. I bartend one night a week, I book rock shows, I manage a gallery with openings every month. There’s always some new and usually fun social obligation. I love having dinner and brunch with friends, I receive a lot of invitations and have many people I want to see. I also, when possible, want to include new or outside people who are eager to be included. I grew up lonely and insecure and I know how hard it is to live on the edge of the party. But sometimes it becomes an entourage of insanity. And because of my mom energy and co-dependent tendencies, boundaries get blurry. I find myself counseling needy nutbags at midnight, feeling pressure to answer long emails from people who want a private response to their opinions on my blogs, or fending off advances from women who think that making out with me will make them feel wild and free. Some of these moments are harmless, some rewarding, some draining.
And since adding the very popular Sam to the mix, things can be even more intense. So without getting into detail, I’ll merely say that one night last weekend was a giant clusterfuck of some serious soul-sucking in which both he and I walked away feeling violated. It was as if one person was a bird of prey: tapping, pecking, clutching, snapping, sleeve-pulling, needing the very core energy of both Sam and myself. If it wasn’t so stressful it would have been fascinating. When I protested I was met with tears, so I backed off and allowed myself to be emotionally manipulated to the point of exhaustion. And now I am sick. I honestly believe that my throat and tongue ache because I did not allow myself to speak up for myself out of fear of drama, of hurting someone, of being perceived as mean, etc. In the end I felt so grossly violated that I woke up the next morning feeling angry. I burned sage and frankincense and myrrh into a great billowing smoke fog in my apartment to fumigate myself and my surroundings.
The end lesson for me is the same as usual with these things, I simply have to walk away and/or say no more often. I have to protect myself the same way I would a friend. It’s really not that complicated, just another aspect of learning self-love. I’m mentioning it not because I need any more advice on energy vampires, more to simply state to the Universe that I am no longer allowing my fear of being disliked to keep me in the muck. Enough is enough.
Now, on to the dating tale.
I have a friend who is really good at dating. She attracts wealthy men like I attract clingy maniacs. Last time we went to a show we were seated at a group table and within ten minutes some yachting mogul was sharing his French fries with her. It’s really fun to watch.
She met a wealthy, attractive, fun, professional guy on Tinder, and although she wasn’t intent upon being exclusive, thought that he could be a good possibility for down the road real boyfriend material. They went to dinner a couple of times, had little daytime adventures, slept together after a few dates. It seemed like a nice fit. He booked a vacation for the two of them on a tropical island. She was happily working on a mental packing list when she got this via facebook:
Lord.
Since the message came in at three am, my friend wisely waited until the next day to answer her. The girlfriend, a nurse from a sexy South American country, called her immediately and said that she had suspected him of cheating for some time, so she put a pill in his drink (!!!) and went through his phone while he lay comatose.
“Nothing that would hurt heem, Dahling, just to make heem a teensy bit drowsy, you know…”
I have done my fair share of suspicious girlfriend sleuthing throughout the decades, but I doff my fascinator to this crafty woman for taking it that extra mile. I might also mention that I have a hot-blooded friend from this particular part of the world, and I would say don’t mess with these sassy beauties unless you’re willing to experience some excitement. And, it seems, an occasional dosing.
The girlfriend went through everything, taking screen shots, charting out names and dates, places and times. She put it all on a calendar. She knew about the vacation, she knew where my friend and the man sat in a particular restaurant, she knew the address of the apartment he held his trysts.
Because as it turned out, this man lived with this girlfriend. And the pad that he had called his own, that he had brought my friend, was an apartment that he and a male friend rented for this particular use. Like something out of an old movie, The Apartment without noble Jack Lemmon keeping things from getting too sleazy.
My friend was flummoxed. She is no dummy or naïf. She did get a little suspicious when he first suggested renting a hotel room, but when she refused he came up with this apartment on the next date. So her spidey senses were assuaged. She really like this guy. He seemed normal, honorable, attractive, responsible. He had an ex-wife and kids that he saw regularly. He had a dog that he loved. He even placed a dog bowl in a conspicuous spot in the apartment to make things look more natural.
The day after she spoke to the girlfriend, she received this from him:
Both the man and his girlfriend hammered her with messages for days, each claiming the other was lying. Some quick facebook sleuthing backed up the girlfriend’s version. My friend wisely bowed out and told them to work it out between themselves while she sadly mourned the real loss–that romantic tropical vacation.
This was a couple of weeks ago, yesterday the girlfriend sent her a text to say hi and ask if she had heard from the man. I told her to block their numbers.
There is no moral to this story. I just think you’ll find it entertaining. Men, if you’re prone to cheating, don’t do it with passionate women with access to drugs. Ladies, it appears it’s still a jungle out there. Check the closets when he goes to the bathroom.
After I got back from Kripalu, starting with New Year’s Eve, which ended poorly, I fell into a deep, deep depression. All last week I felt gray. I felt that I had blown up a comfortable and loving life with Drew for no reason except that I am a destroyer incapable of real love. I felt that I am untrustworthy, unlovable, bad. I felt old, my best days behind me, having achieved very little, wasted so much time, etc. All of the things that people feel when they are depressed. People tell you that you are lovable but you don’t feel it. It feels like you’ve fooled them somehow. I cried every day, all day, except when I had to work or be on point socially.
I have never been truly suicidal. I’ve written about walking the streets in my youth, drunk and hoping to be murdered, to this day still looking at buildings and wondering what it would be to fly off. But never serious about it. I’m dramatic, but too responsible.
On Thursday night I worked a gallery opening at my job and went out for a couple of drinks afterward with my girlfriends. Sam was, as usual, because he’s a near-child with ADHD, unavailable for communication when I could have used it. I got home drunk and thought, “A pill would be nice…” Even though I would have fallen asleep right away if I’d laid down. I just wanted to float untethered for a while. I remembered that I had a bottle of phenobarbitol for my recently deceased dog’s seizures, so I went for that. Couple of those should do it.
As I rolled the full bottle in my hand an idea formed. I thought, “Hey…this could work…” This would be so easy. Let’s hit the reset button and float away for real. Die middle aged, leave an almost beautiful corpse…
I dumped it in my hand and swallowed 55 pills with a couple of chugs of water. And I went to bed.
In bed, I texted Drew that I took them. I was so high that I thought it would be good to tell people that I found this awesome new solution. I wasn’t thinking about punishing him or asking for help. More like, “Hey, this is cool…”
Drew has experienced major trauma from suicide, and I think didn’t see the message until morning, when he called my sister. He’s so angry he’s not speaking to me at all. I don’t know that I’ll ever be fully able to make him understand how sorry I am for all of it.
I woke up very late the next morning, got up to get to the bathroom and couldn’t navigate. I banged into the kitchen table, then off into the stove, veering wildly around the apartment and hanging on to stay upright, like I was on a boat on a stormy sea. My first thought was, “What the hell? I didn’t have that much to drink last night…” It took a few seconds standing there hanging on to the stove to realize what was happening.
Boom! My first thought was “Oooooooooh….” And then my second one was, “God damn it!” I’m still here! I burst into tears. The cats looked at me like, “Really, this again?”
An awareness crept in that there was heavy knocking on my door. I don’t know for how long. I swerved to it and opened it to my neighbor from across the hall, who my sister had called in a panic to check on me. She’s lived across from me since the 90’s and has seen it all. I did my best to stand upright and tell her I was fine, in a stained GnR tee and ugly cotton panties, hair and tears plastered to my face. I wiped snot off my nose with my hand and swayed a little. She looked dubious but she accepted it and said she was home all day if I needed her. Then I called my sister, who had also left a ton of messages. This was difficult because the numbers on the phone kept dancing around most uncooperatively. I squinted and poked. She picked up and said,
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
I assured her I was alive, then went back to crying all morning until it was time to pull it together to bartend. I couldn’t call in suicidal, I needed the money. I actually handled it without looking like a total lunatic, although I kept dropping things and my numbers were probably off. I was high as a fucking kite but I’m the queen of keeping it together when there’s a job to do, and no one knew except those closest to me. Once I got out of work it kicked back in again and I had to hang onto Sam to walk home. He, God bless him, was so terrified he couldn’t speak. He thought phenobarbitol was one of my new agey herbs; when he finally discovered what it was he just shut down.
Sam spent the weekend sitting next to me, not talking, ordering food for us and working on art while I watched movies and conversed on the phone to my people. I was high until late Sunday afternoon., but I got guy wisdom from Jesse, love from Storm, love from Samara, love from Grace, love from Christa, love from Wendy, love from friends, sarcasm and love from my sister, unconditional love from my mom. I got so much love. I am so blessed.
My mother is very pragmatic and not easily ruffled. She’s a fucking tank. If there’s a zombie apocalypse, she’s the person you want on your team. She didn’t see me as suicidal, which I wasn’t exactly, so I’m grateful for that. It wasn’t a cry for help either. It was more a clumsy attempt to shift out of pain that felt no longer bearable. I would not have done it if I hadn’t been drinking, and she got that and didn’t get hysterical. She did a reading for me and this is what she said (paraphrasing and condensing):
Kripalu opened up something very deep that you are ready to heal and clear. You came into this life to learn self-love, and now is the time. We are moving into a higher vibration and we cannot carry old baggage to get there. You are carrying cellular memory of another lifetime in which you made decisions that hurt many people very deeply, and you are carrying a lot of guilt and self-hatred. It’s time for you to let it go. This chapter is not a failure, it is a graduation. You don’t need to do anything, achieve anything. Let go and rest.
Then Grace asked another psychic friend to call me and give me a reading. It was eye-opening and helped me to understand further how I got here.
Something lifted for me. Like really lifted. I feel brighter and clearer than I have in two years. It’s like I went through a tunnel. I could have handled my relationships better, I’m so bone-deep sorry for the pain I’ve caused people. But there were reasons that things went down, and those reasons weren’t all my fault. I can feel that now, before it was just a thought that didn’t seem real. I did the best I could. I’m not a monster, I’m not insane. Wacky, yes, dramatic, definitely. But that’s okay. I’m ready to sit (mostly) quietly and sort out the next chapter of my life.
I’m writing this as it appears to be my bizarre calling to put it all my crap out there for the world to see. It helps some and that helps me, and honestly I don’t care anymore what strangers think of me. Some of you don’t believe the same things that I do, and that’s okay. Take what you can and leave the rest.
We’re all messy, we’re all hurting, we’re all doing our best under trying circumstances. Being alive is hard. If you are feeling depressed, you are not alone. Whatever you are feeling is exactly the same as what someone else is feeling. Be kind to yourself, wear clothes you like, eat food that warms you, call people that like you, watch movies that make you feel good, clean your house so when you look around you feel good about where you’re sitting. Cry more, you’ll pee less. If you need some of the kind of spiritual help I’m talking about here, I’ve got phone numbers. Please don’t send me letters urging mental care, please don’t worry. I’m not looking for sympathy or attention. I’ve got a big support system and well-meaning scrutiny tends to make me feel like a bug under a microscope. I’m absolutely okay and there are others out there who need you more than I do. I feel raw, but grateful, happy, and hopeful.
The full moon last night is kicking my ass. I’m puffy with water retention and find myself being forced to accept that people are gonna let me down sometimes. I’m walking around with a ball of rage in my belly while my head simultaneously understands and empathizes. it’s disconcerting and I believe there are a couple of glasses of wine looming in the very near future. Upside, I got a “psychic” reading from the fabulous Shirley Southerland yesterday and she reassured me that all is going according to plan and that the upheaval of the last year and a half were necessary to make room for what’s coming. I’m supposed to stop beating myself up, enjoy the moment and quit overthinking everything to the point of paralysis. Lord. What is this mysterious “enjoying the moment” that you speak of? So I’ve got a lump in my breast. And typically me, I didn’t even think to ask Shirley about it. I don’t think it’s anything and the only reason I’m blogging it is because the ensuing conversations were pretty funny. Please don’t email me that I’m being flippant about cancer, that is not the case. Cancer doesn’t run in my family and my doctor thinks it’s probably a small fibroid. I rarely check my breasts and work hard to ignore all mammogram recommendations because it’s a rotten procedure that makes me both giggle and squawk in agony. I know I’m fine, but I happened to check myself before seeing my fabulous and funny little Chinese gyno who insists I visit her for regular check ups before she’ll hand out the lovely hormones I depend upon in order not to kill people. And I found a small knot in the side of my left boob. When I mentioned it she felt it for herself and then puffed up to her full 5′ 2″ height and insisted I behave like a proper adult and go get some prescribed titty torture in the medieval mashing machine. I freaked for about two hours. I thought, really, I need this right now? I already live in a constant fever pitch of inner drama when there’s nothing dramatic happening. It’s exhausting. People think I’m grounded because I’m great in emergencies and emit a weird calming energy for others. Completely untrue. It’s constant chaos inside this bad, bad brain. When I’m happy, I find myself flying. In the rare moments that I felt good when I was young I would imagine giant black lace wings coming out of my shoulders, carrying me through the day, just high as can be on life. In adulthood there have been moments when I’ve walked the streets late at night actually hoping to be murdered, obliterated, wiped off the planet like an insect, leaving only a bloody smear on the pavement to be washed away by the dirty rain. It’s not wanting to die exactly; more like wanting to cease to exist, cease to feel. I still look up at tall buildings on some nights and imagine flying off into oblivion. I am not bipolar or depressed. I am too lazy for that kind of commitment. It’s more a heightened dark sense of drama and humor that’s been there since birth. Everything looks like a movie to me. My favorite book in the 6th grade was Jane Eyre. I imagined my 11 year old self in those austere locations–misunderstood, suffering from an overabundance of feelings in a cold, hard world. Wednesday Addams in a 1970”s world full of Farrah Fawcetts. God bless my poor mother for her infinite patience with her children, because my sister is equally ridiculous. She got sick a few years back with a buildup of yeast in her system from too many hardcore antibiotics and had to cease eating anything with wheat or sugar, which pretty much just leaves vegetables. She lost it completely and spent a hysterical week sobbing that she was going to starve to death while simultaneously stuffing herself with cucumber slices that she carried around everwhere in Tupperware, like a cold, plastic blankie. You could barely understand her declarations of dangerous hunger because her mouth was so full. And she, like me, loves to send out long, dramatic texts when drunk or ill.
It’s gotta be genetic. So I trudged to Chinatown in the hot sun for a bout of truly vicious mammograming and ice-cold sonogramming. As I lay there waiting for the last frigid and greasy sonogram on my beleaguered and by all reports lumpy left boob, I ran everything through to the worst conclusion. Double mastectomy, no hair, blogging tediously about my “journey”, until the final days–my long-suffering friends enjoying my meds (you’re welcome) as I lay in the hospital emaciated, haggard, incoherent, unloved and dying after living a dissipated and self-absorbed existence in which not much was accomplished. This simply would not do. I am no hero. Suicide would clearly be the order of the day. But how? Jump off that building I’m always eyeing? Roller coasters make me cry and my feet tingle when I look over balcony railings. Carbon monoxide in a garage with a car running? Who do I know with a garage and a car in New York? No one. Okay, I do know a shit ton of former junkies. Drug overdose, heroin probably the easiest to procure! But how much? And that means I’ll have to quickly learn how to inject myself. Hmmm… I called Drew, who let’s just say had more than a passing acquaintance with substances during his youth. “Hey. I have a lump in my boob and I’m probably dying.” He played along, because he knows the insanity better than anyone. “You can’t lose your boobs, they’re your best feature. And you’re annoying enough when you have a cold.” Me: “I KNOW. So I might have to kill myself, and I figure drugs are easiest, and since you’re no stranger, to…ah…substances, I’m gonna need your help.” Drew: “Well, if you get to kill yourself with dope, then I get to do it too! I’m fucking tired!” Me: “Okay, that’s fine, but you’re buying.” Drew: “That makes no sense. If you’re dying who cares who pays?” Me: “I’m the one whose DYING! I DIE, you BUY!’ Drew: “You really are a jerk. it’s about time God finally smote you.” Sam, my too young and completely under-equipped to handle my brand of crazy new boyfriend said, God bless him–“You know I’ll be there for you if it’s something.” I said, “No way. This would be way too much for you.” He waved his palm in my direction and said, “This whole…ah…”thing” is too much for me.” I called my sister and told her my plan and she informed me that she has three little titanium pieces in her breasts from lumps that were biopsied and benign and that according to her doctor our family is genetically predisposed to “dense breasts”. She then said, “Soooo, just saying suicide might be a little extreme. Think of all the good wig options.” To which I replied, “Hmm…I do like a good wig…But still. I will not be a positive role model. I’ll be terrible and whiney and overly dramatic and it will be a huge torture for all of my friends.” She said, “You’re already whiney and overly dramatic and torture your friends. You’d just be doing it in a wig.” I said, “Eh. I guess it could be all right, as long as I don’t end up crying and eating cucumber slices.” She sighed and said, “I was DYING of starvation. It was a TRAGIC SITUATION.” So I guess we’re all good. Business as usual. I’ll keep you posted.
I am convinced that all bad behavior stems out of a need to alleviate anxiety: anxiety created from lack of self-worth, self-trust, imagined lack of love, past life pain, abuse, who knows what. It’s like every little slash of damage from all these sources creates fissures in the whole, and those fissures create anxiety and then we do whatever we can to not feel the bad feelings until that particular whatever doesn’t work anymore and we’re forced to work on ways to patch or heal the cracks. Or maybe find new whatevers if we’re not quite ready for anything deeper.
Some people are calmer than others. I am not one of them. It’s only in the last few years that I’ve realized that I am an deeply anxious person. Maybe we all are? Maybe we all drink and smoke and rob banks and post bitchy comments online because we want to escape the gnawing dread that lies directly under the surface? It appears that simple to me sometimes, even though nothing is ever that simple. It’s always infuriatingly complex. Some people garden or run marathons, God bless them. I like to burn everything down to the ground and then weep over it inconsolably.
My mother says I was always drawn to darkness, even at a very young age.
I remember looking up at my dad and asking if I would be grown up when I turned 10 years old. He said nope, gotta wait til later, kiddo. I came to NY at 21 and met an amazing woman named Liz who was 35 at the time, which seemed a lifetime away. She led a very alternative lifestyle which spoke of mysteries that both scared and fascinated me. She remained poised and sure of herself while I spazzed around her, bouncing off walls and committing bonehead gaffes with regularity. But I thought that when I too hit 35 I would finally be an adult, wiser and more sure of myself like her.
Spaz with hero:
Then I got there and still felt like the same person I was at 21. I am still waiting for maturity to hit. No one tells you that you will always be who you are no matter what changes you see in the mirror. You might make better decisions based upon past experience, but you’re essentially the same idiot with the same idiosyncrasies and demented drives that you always were.
I know that some of you are wondering what the eff I’ve been up to since that last over-sharing post.
Drew and I are working it out. We were both drinking too much to cope and not connecting and came very close to splitting up. He collected a lot of phone numbers and dated an obnoxious little girl for a few minutes. I continued torturing him with my attachment to another person. It came to a head where it became clear it was time to split, at least temporarily, or cut it the fuck out. So we’re making changes. He has a lot of patience and we have a lot of love between us and have always been able to talk things out. We’ve both made concessions and are aware enough to see that the shake up was inevitable. I would share more details but he is a private person and I have to respect that. Plus I have come to realize that not everyone wishes for our highest good, and I don’t need to hand out ammo to those few who love to sling arrows.
It is time to face my demons, at least tentatively. My bratty, unruly, wanna go out and party like a 21 year old so I don’t have to deal with middle-age fear demons.
Recently I ran into a woman in the bank that I knew “back in the day”. She was cute and fun and interesting then. Now she has crazy eyes and immediately began rambling in a too loud voice about her various ailments and how she never goes out, never goes on facebook, never this, never that, arthritis, medication, no money, etc. She was the physical embodiment of all my terror.
I practically sprinted out of the bank. And this is not a rare occurrence, I get the same energy from people my age via facebook, via email. It is no wonder I have found myself rebelling in every way possible. I will not go gently into that good night. I will continue to rebel, I just need to do it in a way that doesn’t damage myself and everyone in the vicinity.
My mother and I, separately and in different ways, recently began being guided to look at inner child work. One of the readings I mentioned in a prior blog had said that my childhood is what keeps knocking on the door, and that it is time to heal that pain and in doing so free myself from the survival behaviors that are no longer working for me. The main one being destroying relationships when they aren’t distracting me from my own fear and shame.
So lame. Why can’t my mechanism be over-arching ambition or an obsession with making my apartment look better?
Drew, as usual, figured it out way before me and said he knew that the wounded and rebellious kid buried inside me had been running the show for months, maybe even for last year. And because we have always been mirrors for each other, my damage drew out the deepest of his damage, also inner child stuff. All those points of darkness buried deep within the psyche that tell us we’re not good enough, we’ll never be good enough, we are unlovable. We both manifested in our own particular less-than-healthy ways.
On top of that, there is the male/female dynamic. Good men (and there are many more good men out there than a lot of women are willing to admit) will try to do whatever they can to make women happy. But most women don’t know they have that power and don’t really know what they want and don’t know that we have to ask for it out loud. So we (women) sit around expecting men to intuit what it is we need, and to provide it, while men scramble around confusedly trying to follow nebulous and contradictory clues. I found myself unhappy and deadened and I expected Drew to fix it. He’s always done whatever I asked, but this time I wasn’t asking because I didn’t know.
Blargh. It’s an ongoing process. I am by no means sorted. I am confused as fuck. But I’m looking within more often instead of without and I want to share a few resources that are helping me, in case any of what I am experiencing resonates for any of you.
And this guy. Who I initially found annoying, but this lecture blew me away once I got into it, he outlines why we sabotage our attempts to get spiritual: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4fUzXQS3M-s
And Mama Gena has some wonderful information about the inner workings of men and women: http://www.mamagenas.com/
Lastly, a side note. Recently my favorite cat Albert escaped the apartment and was missing for two days. It was a rough two days, but so many hundreds of people, strangers as well as friends, extended help that it upped my ambivalent opinion about the human race. So thank you to everyone who was there for me. Albert is safe and sound.
I haven’t been blogging much lately because I haven’t known how to put the words down. I have been writing quite a bit, mostly poetry, and the Lydia Lunch workshops and Badass Babes on a Bender reading event went even better than expected, so we will be doing that again. Everything was filmed, so it will go online at some point, although I hate watching myself talk/read on film. Being in a band is so much easier. Like many people, I grew up with a lot of secrets, with shame, and feeling that I had to hide my true self from myself and from others. Over time I’ve managed to shed a portion of that nagging voice that tells you that if people really knew who you were they would never love you. Though I’m not completely whole, I’m not veering wildly from raging maniac to mommy’s good girl anymore. Part of the healing process has been learning to speak truthfully to people. I have hurt so many lovers and friends with omissions and half-truths. I would either run before having to say something out loud or hold it in for too long and then blurt it out at the most inappropriate and hurtful time possible. Friends would assume that everything was great while I rolled along gathering steam until I’d freak out and scream at them over something minor. I once told an on again off again boyfriend that I had become involved with someone else right before the boyfriend and his band walked out to play a song on a national talk show. Yeah, I’m that person. It just fell out of my mouth. I’ve been called a succubus more than once in this lifetime. So now I want to live in honesty. I believe that honesty, even if difficult, will lead to everyone’s higher good in the end. I also think that my writing is meaningful only if it comes from a truthful place. To me, creativity is making something from the deepest part of yourself that then connects to the deepest part of another. I can’t come close to that if I’m bullshitting. But what if your truth is something that will damage the people closest to you or endanger your status quo? In my case, you keep it tamped down, drink too much alcohol to not have to think about it, and definitely don’t blog about it. Drew and I have been together for 12 years. We fell madly in love when we got together and I tattooed his name on my arm within a month of being with him. People have always envied our relationship. We eat the same, sleep the same, travel the same, like the same music, think the same things are funny. Even when we fight we still crack jokes. We fight fair, we don’t play games, we want each other to be happy. Drew has helped me heal a lot of damage. He is the first man in my life that to consistently prove trustworthy. He sees me as fragile, which no man ever has, and always does his best to make sure that I am safe and happy. He is not a perfect person, he has had his moments, but for the most part it’s been a healthy connection. I am a nicer, calmer person now than I was when we met, and that is due to his presence and support. Status quo: everything fine. Then my hormones went kablooey, and maybe something deeper, some kind of soul shifting occurred, long-buried wounds came up to be healed, and I stopped cooperating. Classic perio-menopause symptoms: I needed more time alone, I was bitchy, couldn’t sleep, I wanted to focus on whatever I was doing at the moment and not be distracted by whatever he was doing or saying. I went to the doctor, got some hormone replacement therapy (pills) and felt infinitely better. Thank you Jesus, thank you Lord. Drew was beyond relieved. But something still wasn’t back to normal. I felt antsy. As much as I am a rock and roll rebel on the outside, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to be this responsible “good girl” persona that was imposed upon me from birth. Suddenly that felt binding. The idea of settling into a quiet middle age, the talks of moving somewhere less urban, felt chafing. I wanted to hang out with friends, run the streets wild like I did in my 20’s, stay up all night and write bad poetry into the mornings. And because I am bartending and not working an office job, that is pretty easy for me to do. For most of my life love has been about ownership. I’ve had a lot of rules about how things are supposed to be and many of those rules have been borne out of fear and pain. This is not an especially comfortable space to live in for every involved party, but we all have our damage and that has been mine. Fear of losing, fear of losing control, fear of abandonment, fear of someone taking what I have. And I am a charismatic enough person that I have usually been able to mold situations to suit my comfort level. People have loved me enough to allow me to pin them down. Over the last year I could feel the rules dropping away and with it came an excitement to step into the unknown. Who am I really, if I stop reacting and choose for myself? In some ways that’s great. The idea of new possibilities is expansive, decisions made from joy and true personality rather than fear and need for protection. But in other ways, it’s very difficult. Recently, and probably because I am in this wide open space psychically and spiritually, I allowed another person to enter my psyche and heart. They didn’t replace Drew, just sort of moved in next to him in a way that was impossible to ignore or resist. This was not comfortable for me as it is a violation of all the rules that I personally created. I felt as if I’d dropped into an open manhole, fumbling around in the dark. I’ve spent months festering, obsessing, getting psychic readings, talking to friends, and as mentioned, drinking too much to not have to think about it. Eventually, and against all friendly advice, I told Drew. It simply didn’t feel right to keep a secret from the closest person in my life. He knew already anyway, he had predicted it a year ago as he knows me better than I know myself sometimes. And he could feel the distance and see the weight that I was silently carrying. The price for that honesty is high. We are evolved, non-traditional people; he understands me, he knows this is something the cosmos threw at me, and maybe him too, to crack things open in a way that maybe needed to happen. My favorite psychic predicted it ten years ago and Drew and I both believe that there are no coincidences. I don’t believe we’re here to be comfortable, I believe we’re here to sort our souls out, that being alive on the earth is a form of school. We aren’t here to coast cheerfully. Certainly joy is an aspect of life if we are lucky, but there are also deeper elements working to force us to expand in ways that aren’t always comfortable. But understanding it intellectually doesn’t change the emotional aspect. I have caused an immeasurable amount of pain to the one person who has always been my staunchest advocate and friend and who least deserves it. His friends think I’m an asshole. I feel like an asshole. My mother is going to be so mad at me when she reads this. I have created damage that might not be undone and I have to live with that on my conscience.
Every day is a rough tiptoe through uncharted territory: heavy conversations and moments of anger and hurt on his part, apologies on mine. Then other days it’s all jokes, and weirdly, both of us agree we feel closer now than we have in months, now that we’re talking openly again. Maybe we will separate and always be friends. Maybe Drew will add a new girlfriend to his life to balance out the other person in mine. He certainly gets offers every day and now he’s got a get out of jail free card, especially as I am unwilling to eject what is a deep connection from my life and try to pretend it never existed, which would be the traditional solution. I watch enough Dr. Phil to hear him shouting it at me. But Drew and I both know that trying to step backward into an old footprint is not the solution; forward movement is the only way. But what is that movement? I can barely predict the next hour, let alone the future. Maybe Drew and I will come together stronger in the end. I have always assumed we would grow old together. Now anything is possible. I only know that my intuition is telling me that it will all be fine in the end, and that although we are in the weeds, we are still oddly on course. At my lowest moments I have felt an angel’s hand on my shoulder. So I’m free falling while working on my inner self as much as possible in the hope that the outer self will follow suit. And trying to remain respectful and conscientious in the process. Drew simply says, “I love you, Mary, more than anyone ever, but you are batshit fucking crazy and you’re an incredible pain in the ass.” Ah, yep. Thought the crazy was behind me, turns out not so much. Seems as if it might be a life sentence. So that’s the reason that I haven’t blogged anything wise or funny lately. I am worried about the repercussions of being so public with this, but it is what it is. I may be an asshole, but I’ll always tell you the truth. Lydia, Zoe and me at Badass Babes, having some words with a heckler. Photo by the uber talented Jasmine Hirst:
I know these posts are getting more new agey all the time, but that’s where my thoughts reside lately, so it is what it is. I am not a well woman.
Christa Lawrence, who has known me since we were very young, maintains that you can put me in a room full of 300 attractive, emotionally-available men and I will invariably choose the hot one in the corner with a drug habit and and a bad attitude. This myopia carries through all aspects of my life: I currently own four adopted, once-abused and/or abandoned animals, each one with its own weird issue, two of them epileptic. But they look gorgeous. All of the people I truly love are insane. I am drawn to the broken and beautiful, determined to repair. I love the phrase “beautiful wreck”, even though it is better in poetry than it is in real life, and I will ram my head against a problem until it shifts, or (more often) until I cut my head open. As you can imagine, this over-arching codependency and love of drama has created chaos over the years: hospital visits, drug abuse, broken windows, broken hearts, rivers of tears. Therapy, therapy, therapy, talking, talking, talking. Blah, blah, blah. Once in a while you think you’ve got it together: you don’t snort drugs anymore, you choose higher quality people (look Ma, no junkies!), and only a small and manageable amount of people still hate your guts. But in the end you’re the same person you always were, just with better manners and a cleaner apartment. Given the right opportunity and planetary alignment, my boundaries are still hopelessly skewed. Because, in truth, I am the one that is broken, gluing bits and pieces back together over time. Over the last year the planets and hormones have aligned themselves in a most chaotic fashion, and I have been emotional, batty, and sick for months with a low grade cold which comes and goes in intensity, but always saps my energy. I am working on it, so please don’t bombard me via facebook with herb and food suggestions, the last time this happened I kept all the wise advice from friends and am utilizing much of it. This is more about finding my way through an energetic vortex than about consuming oil of oregano. Some days lately I feel so sad, so angry, so much love, so much desire, so much spinning that I just want to burn my whole life down. Run somewhere and start a cat rescue ranch on a beach. Can you have a cat farm on the beach? Probably not because they don’t like to swim and they’d look at it as one big litter box. I had two readings recently, one from my mom and one from a friend who is very thorough and spot on, and as a result is highly in demand. They both said the same thing: clearing old energy. Yeesh. This from my mom: “Mary is clearing much old energy from past lifetimes as are most others at this time. It is a process and must unfold. She will have to deal with the physical as needed, but that too is a clearing of old energy regarding female issues from past lifetimes as well as the clearing of the sacral chakra. She needs to spend more time quietly, less drinking, socializing, and more going within. She is focused outwardly too much even when alone and is thus unable hear to her inner voice. This is a powerful time on earth when much change is happening for all. The old ways are fading and disappearing and the new and higher frequencies of Light are coming in in ever increasing intensity. Any resistance will simply make this process more difficult. She hopes to keep things as they have always been, but this is not possible. She need not fear the loss of who she is with change, for it only can result and a better “self” as one becomes more enlightened. Be not afraid dear one, for you cling tightly to much that is finished in the belief that it is you. No, it is not you. Much of your work is finished in the forms it has been, but new forms will appear when you are ready. The outer is the inner. For now you must take time to relax and allow this process to unfold.” Less drinking, more meditating? Seriously?? Drew’s response: “But you’re so much happier and nicer when you’re drinking…” I KNOW.
Luckily, I have a solid support system of family and friends who love me and tell me that I’m a good person even when I can’t see it. A mother who is on hand with spiritual readings whenever I feel I need them. She keeps repeating herself hoping it will sink in: Clearing. Fucking clearing. I’m sick of the word. Clearing out the old past life stuff, this life stuff, all the crap that gets in the way of peace and possible “ascension” is coming up now for everyone. How do we even walk with all the past life, this life, this week baggage strapped to our backs? The second reading I got was two hours long so I can’t put it all down here, but one of the main directives was that it is time to revisit my childhood and heal/release old wounds from there. ‘Cause nothing says party like thinking about that time in the third grade when your first undying and unrequited most beautiful in the world passionate love Bennett Manville chose Susan Bell over you because you had just gotten glasses, even though you were the one he always talked to and who kept him laughing through homeroom every day. Susan was a real bitch about the whole thing too.
In actuality, there was much heavier stuff going on, but still. Life is hard from the get. First day of kindergarten, I already knew it was going to suck.
Okay, where was I going with this? Oh yes. Revisiting childhood. So yeah, trying to do that. Think about who I was, who I am, how I got here. Thinking about all the shit that went down and allowing myself to feel all the shame, the sadness, the confusion, the anger, the self-loathing, etc. So much self-hatred. What I have learned is that if you allow yourself to feel the feelings instead of resisting or avoiding, there is less pain. Not less sadness, which is different, but do-able. Sadness passes if you don’t hold so tightly. Once you’ve ugly-cried for a few minutes (or hours…or years…) you can let it rise out of the top of your head and dissipate. Clearing. My mother tells me that when we are asleep, and if we are willing, our angels and guides work on us to help with the process. Two nights ago as I was falling asleep I felt myself being picked up out of my body. I floated up into a space where everything was blue and green and sort of looked like the inside of a lava lamp. I felt intense energy around me and I got freaked, and I said, “You’re going too fast, I’m scared.” They, whoever they are, told me that I was safe, put me back in my body, and I woke up with a start. As soon as I started dozing off I was right back in the lava lamp, but I wasn’t frightened anymore. The next day my BFF wifey Zoe Hansen, who is one of the most psychic people I know, and who is always in tune with what I am feeling even when we don’t talk about it, posted this selfie with the exact colors and energy on facebook. So I knew what had happened was real.
So yeah, residing inside lava lamps, cat ranches, colds, childhood, past lives, the outer is the inner. And this is only the stuff I can talk about publicly.
I need a drink. Lastly, I’m coordinating a spoken word workshop with Lydia Lunch. If you are a female writer in the NY area and want some expert assistance on reading to an audience, email me at darklady1@gmail.com. April 12th is full but there are still a couple of spots left for the 14th.
Hope this blog finds you all well. And thank you for your kind indulgence. =)
This one is primarily for the ladies, advance apologies to my male friends…
I had allotted this time for yoga and sitting in front of my new LED anti-aging light that I spent 275 bucks on, but the urge to write is stronger. It’s time I come clean about what is going on with me in 2014, an act which I have resisted out of fear. But I pride myself on my honesty and believe that one of my purposes in this lifetime is to share the things that I have learned, so let’s just get on with it.
Side-note: this is the light. I had to sell the Nuface I told you about before, because my skin is very sensitive and the electric current was causing me to break out in hives. Zoe and I have a fabulous dermatologist friend (Dr. William Gael–he rocks!) who we torture constantly for beauty assistance, and he has a light and says it works. So I bought this one:
Drew rolls his eyes when I put on my pink goggles and go in. I will keep you posted on whether it works or not. I can feel a tingling sometimes when I use it, but the jury is out right now.
Some months ago I started having hot flashes. I refused to believe it was happening, but things got increasingly worse until I could no longer deny the reality. I couldn’t sleep well because I was waking up over and over in a burning state, having to throw the covers off and the windows open. And then I got all emotional, distant and bitchy with Drew for no reason. I still tried to pretend that everything was normal, until he finally had had enough, and God bless him, sat me down and asked me what was going on even though he knew exactly what was going on. I burst into tears and said it out loud, the dreaded, hateful words:
“I think I’m in the middle of menopause.” He replied with a slightly longer version of “Well, duh.”
Since then things have been better, at least between us. He is a stellar, kind, patient person and now jokes that he is a victim of “The Pause”. I am working to be more conscious of how I treat him as my hormones rage in and out of control. I have never been a gentle person, except to animals, and it seems that one of Drew’s jobs in this lifetime is to teach me how to be less harsh with the people around me.
But it felt like more than that. All of the normal herbs and bullshit that you are advised to take for this bizarre time in life, which is not unlike puberty in many ways, were not helping me. Hot, cold, hot, cold, hot, cold, weepy, angry, terrified. The Pause is not sexy. I have spent a lifetime cultivating an identity that revolves around sexy. If I am old, which is not a valuable state for women in our culture, who am I? If I am not physically desirable, how can I be loveable? From where will I derive power if my primary power is gone? And on a basic, material level, I am working in service again, how long can I keep that up if I look old behind the bar? And how will I keep my man, who, is younger than me and because it’s a goddamn man’s world, still gets hit on by nubile, much-more-willing-to-be-accommodating 20-somethings?
Gah!!! The mind reels! More voddy, Darling?
Excruciating. But pretending that you are who you are not is not a good look for anyone. People who desperately try to pretend they are younger than they are become undignified and laughable.
I am aware that this is a process that nearly every woman experiences if she is lucky enough to live to an old age, and that it has its own rewards. Deep down I also know that regardless, I am vital and beautiful and will remain so in various forms until I die. But I am resistant, so resistant to change that my body has had to ratchet up the uncomfortability level in order to force me to pay attention.
I finally asked my mother for a reading. I don’t publish much of her information here because she prefers that those who are ready come to it on their own, and there is a real fear that those who aren’t ready will not receive it well. But I think that in this case it is valuable information for more than just me. This is what she got:
Her energy is shifting and much of what she is experiencing has to do with this rather than with menopause. She is somewhat in resistance to change as she identifies and honors herself with an image, much of it from the past. The new energy is trying to move in and she is hold tightly to the old causing her to be out of sync. She needs to rest more, center more, and actually live the truth that she knows…quiet the mind. (They are talking about rest as laying down quietly or meditating, not considering rest to be playing video games or watching TV). [Ed. note: But I just renewed my XBox gold subscription!]
She needs to clear her energy field when working and after coming home. She brings a lot of heavy energy home with her. This can be avoided by keeping her energy field clear and filled with light while working through conscious intention and visualization. There are many changes coming for her soon on all levels. The energy is changing and resistance to the new is causing a physical response. She must try and be open to any new ideas that may come that don’t fit into her concept of who and what she is. She needs to begin to love herself for who she really is (Divine Being having a human experience) and let go of the belief that she is only loveable if she fits a certain image she is holding of herself. Her heart center is opening to new levels and she will begin to experience love for others on a new level…more on a global level. Herbal teas and products like this can help the symptoms she is experiencing but it is mostly due to resistance to change and a letting go of the past. Be open to change dear one, do what you do but from a new level of awareness. Take the day to day experiences and begin to see them from a higher standpoint for there is in reality, nothing that is not in and of the Divine…it is only how it is interpreted that makes it what it is. You are loved greatly dear one and have much to offer. Allow this to flow easily and gently out to others while not allowing yourself to be validated by anything, anyone, or anything from the present or past. She does not need to become a new personality, just an awake one. She has earned skills that make her a powerful light worker, and knowing and living truth does not mean a person becomes a wuss or doormat. It is being who you are, doing what needs to be done, but with awareness. So poop. Is the work never done? Every time I get over one bullshit scenario, a new one roars into view. I’m so sick of it. Life is so hard!
Apparently the education continues, whether welcome or not. At times I feel as if I am in the middle of mourning some nebulous something, which I guess I am. But I know that you can’t get new stuff until you Spring clean out the old stuff. And I like getting stuff. I am resistant to talking about it with anyone out of mortification, yet it feels imperative to shed something, to get free. So against all panic to the contrary, I’ve just outed myself online.
I will try to inform on progress if I don’t freak out and take this post down in an hour. In the meantime, send Drew your prayers.
I like to watch the show “Snapped” when I’m getting ready to go to work. It profiles women who murder, which I find interesting, and it isn’t especially visual, they’ll show the same photos and people repeatedly, so I can concentrate on drawing on my eyebrows without having to look at the television too much. Drew doesn’t really get it, he thinks it’s morbid, which is probably true, but even he will occasionally get sucked in and add commentary: “My, that’s a handsome woman…” or “You’d think he would have noticed all that anti-freeze in his spaghetti…”
I saw one recently about two high school girls who fought over the same guy: a skinny little kid with a baby mustache who considered himself a player and enjoyed pitting the girls against one another. One girl was from a blue collar background, very pretty, a dropout who worked as a waitress, the other one was from a more middle class background, still going to school with straight A’s, not as pretty but with other advantages. The competition for the boy’s attention quickly escalated to threats via phone and text, harassment at the waitress job, aand generally picking at each other whenever possible until combusting into a physical fight in which the pretty waitress stabbed the good student, who died. So over some selfish jerk that neither one of them would probably love forever, one girl dies without fulfilling a blossoming potential, another one goes to prison for 27 years. Two families devastated while dumbass “playa” remained unpunished and claimed remorselessly on the stand that neither girl was his girlfriend.
Hmm…there but for the grace of God. In my youth I suffered mightily over many mistakes and got into all kinds of verbal and physical altercations struggling to keep my own prizes. Thank you, Jesus, thank you Lord that I had the presence of mind to leave the knives at home. But I feel great sympathy for the girl who didn’t. You do stupid things when you’re young and haven’t got the full capacity to appreciate the likely consequences. One weekend in jail was enough to cure me of the need to be right, what would 27 years do?
I was at work on Saturday night a couple of weeks ago when a trio parked themselves at the end of my bar: an American brunette woman, American blonde woman and a European, possibly French guy. The women were in their late 20’s, early 30’s and each beautiful in a different kind of way. The guy was average looking, attractive, with a short beard and nondescript clothing. He had an accent and kept ordering whiskey sours for the three of them without knowing what they were called and without tipping. The brunette woman would notice and put a tip down for me, and one or two times handed money over his shoulder to me for the drinks while he fumbled with singles for what seemed an interminable amount of time, leading me to suspect that he didn’t have a lot of cash and wasn’t super pumped about paying for all of the drinks.
The brunette seemed most in control of the situation: she leaned against the wall looking cool and talking while they drank, whereas the blonde got bombed almost immediately and would sort of veer around wildly to stare at me with her mouth open. If I approached and asked what she needed, she gaped without response until slowly veering back toward the other two.
It was an annoying and somewhat bovine behavior. My apologies to the cows of this world for that reference, as they are generally more endearing when they stare, but that was the word that came to mind as I tried to ignore the constant eyeball.
The blonde didn’t seem to like me much and didn’t seem to know when to stop drinking. Euro-dude kept trying to order her another whiskey sour, to which I would reply “Hell, no!” and told him that if she couldn’t form a sentence she couldn’t have any more booze. She continued to stare with her mouth open while these exchanges went on, ignoring the consolation glass of water I plunked down in front of her. My impression was that Euro guy was with the blonde, as he seemed most interested in her, and the brunette was sort of hanging in there to keep an eye on her drunk friend.
The brunette thanked me for the blonde’s water, and as it was late and slowing down, I asked her if she wanted to do a shot with me. She did, and we did. After the shot I waved my finger in a circle at the three of them,
“So tell me what’s going on here.”
She said, “This is my best friend, and she and I are in competition for this guy right now.”
I was tempted to recite one of my favorite quotes, made by Rosie Perez in a pretty crappy movie called Untamed Heart:
“Look at him! He looks like a tumor sittin’ over there. Ugh, and his hair! It just bothers me so much!”
I wish I could find the movie clip but it appears that no one on youtube thinks it’s as funny as I do. And I can’t do Rosie’s accent justice so I stuck to the truth and said, “Really? But he’s so ordinary. He doesn’t seem to have much money, he’s average-looking…” She turned around to look at him as he was in the middle of doing a happy little I’m-with-two-babes dance.
I rolled my eyes and continued. “There’s a pot belly under that sweater. That’s only going to get worse you know. And you’re hot, and smart, and can have any single guy in this room right now. And your friend…Well, she’s hot anyway…”
She laughed and said, “We just both really like him and I think neither of us wants to let the other win.”
I went back to bartending and the stand-off continued for another half hour. Brunette got Euro-guy to dance with her while Blonde glare-gaped at me and spilled the water. I was a little nervous that left unattended she might vomit on my bar, so I refilled it and stuck it in front of her again.
Eventually Blonde pulled herself together, registered that the other two were dancing too closely for her liking, did a little foot-stomp, and ran out of the room. Brunette took the opportunity to grab Euro-guy and make out with him for a second before they both left the room to get their friend. I thought that was the end of the show but they brought her back for a convo. Blonde yelled at Brunette, Euro-guy tried not to grin too obviously with glee before chasing after Blonde as she ran back out of the room for the second and last time. Brunette turned and said,
“Thank you for everything.” I replied,
“Dude, seriously. You have all the power. Don’t hand it over to this doofus.” She waved and left.
It wasn’t exactly a bummer; the unfolding of a good drama is entertaining when you’re bored behind a bar. But I did feel badly for Brunette, she was so much better than her current choice. It would have been nice to save her a little pain and suffering, as I already know exactly how it will play out. Euro-guy will happily sleep with whomever will have him, but will always lean toward the blonde. Someone will feel hurt and betrayed, harsh words will be exchanged, and the two girls will experience a rift in their friendship which might never be repaired, even though both of them will look back one day and wonder why they thought he was so duel-worthy. He will most likely go back to France and tell all of his friends how much fun American girls are…
There is no moral to this blog or way to wrap it up, just wanted to tell the story. I hope that at least a little of what I said to the brunette sinks in. People have made very wise statements to me that I didn’t quite get at the time, now I understand them fully. Most of the time the words don’t make sense until the experience connects. Knowing something in your brain won’t affect behavior until you know it in your stomach and heart as well, so most of us are compelled to heed the call of the wild until it doesn’t appeal so much any more. It could be worse, at least I got the lessons after a few smacks on the head, I know people who are still repeating their same mistakes at very advanced ages.
It’s all a journey, I suppose. I’m sure I’ve written this before, but it bears repeating: I had a conversation with a friend in which I said,
“I can’t believe I wasted so much time suffering and fighting over so little.” She shrugged and said,
“Eh. You had to learn the lesson from someone. At least he looked good…”
Maybe that’s all we can hope for as we repeat the mistakes of those that came before us: to be able to forgive the idiots we were, try to pass on the knowledge gained, and accumulate a few good stories and photos in the process.
Mother of God, how I hate the winter! I have blogged about this so many times that it is pointless to do so again, but it’s all I’ve got. This time of year creeps up on me like a quiet plague. It infiltrates every part of my being: my sight, my hearing, my perception, the way I feel inside my body and brain. I never notice it’s coming until it’s in my bones and I’m crunching around the grey streets, feeling grey and alternating emotionally between a lazy rage and a sad apathy. I feel for chronically depressed people in February. In June, I forget about them. It’s all tight dresses and two hour brunches and “Girl, your hair looks FABULOUS!”. But for now, the perpetually sad have my attention and empathy. I know their pain. I was a depressed teenager, not realizing that the 6 months of winter in Northern Michigan were partly to blame for a perpetually bummed out mood which manifested in embarrassing diaries full of flowery and intense longing for I knew not what, and a lifelong attachment to black clothing. Sigh…the more things change, the more they stay the same, except that with age and experience comes the ability to recognize the symptoms of seasonal ennui.
Over the last couple of weeks I’ve been drinking too much at work when it gets very late into the night. It cheers me up, if only momentarily. And I have to cool it. I haven’t gotten so drunk that people notice, but I am mature enough to desire sobriety when gainfully employed. But instead of reminding myself that I am vulnerable right now and simply have to choose to take a break for the time being, I take it to the emotional and mental extreme. I text apologies to people who have no idea what I’m talking about. I wonder if I’m an alcoholic. I wallow in self-loathing, vague and undefinable guilt and shame lapping at my ankles. I wonder if I should go back to therapy. I wonder if my boyfriend has stopped loving me. Yaaaaayyy…it’s February! Today I had intended to go to a yoga class, but then it seemed well out of the range of possibility energy-wise. I did get out to run some errands, and that was just as expected. I stood in an empty aisle reading a label in the drug store, and Patty NYU comes and stands directly behind me as close as possible, wanting to look at the same item. The internal monologue starts up immediately. Why can’t she get her other stuff first? Does she have to hover around me like an ill wind? I turn around and give her the look. She ignores me. She just wants what she wants, and I am in her way. I want to kill her. Now we are mortal enemies. There can be only one! In the cash register line I assess her hair. It looks dull and lifeless. Her hair is stupid. I hate her jacket. How dare she stand so close to me in an empty store. She must die. She doesn’t have a Duane Reade club card. She probably doesn’t need one because Daddy pays the credit card bill. I create a whole backstory to justify my rage. Then I realize I actually like her hair, and remember, oh yeah. It’s FEBRUARY. In the grocery store I get stuck behind an old lady traffic jam. The grocery stores in Manhattan are excruciating: a too-small labyrinth of boxes and bodies. Human movement is impossible without constant struggle, and the elderly love to gum the already gummy works with the largest carts possible. They don’t care, they’re retired, it’s time to hang. So we all stop and wait. I am too depressed to try to get around them, so I just stare at the onions with resentment. I am hot, so hot. Because in February you dress for the outdoors and then as soon as you get inside to shop you boil in your coat and scarf and hat.
Eventually the tiny, stooped woman at the front of the fray takes a shuffle step. We’re moving now! I sigh audibly and yank at my itchy scarf. They all must die. At the register line, I choose self-service so I can bag in my eco-friendly cloth bag at my leisure. The machine immediately freaks out at the presence of a non-plastic bag and shouts repeatedly at me: “PLEASE REMOVE THE UNSCANNED ITEM FROM THE BAG.” The girl manning the self-service is wearing the most amazing wig I have ever seen, it sits high on her head with black and white streaks pouring out of the back like a fountain. This cheers me some when she clears my machine, until PLEASE REMOVE THE UNSCANNED ITEM FROM THE BAG starts up again. Fuck you, stupid machine. I will kill you too. The only good thing on this entire planet right now is that goddamn wig. One of the little old ladies freaks out. She starts shouting at her cashier: “I ONLY ASKED YOU WHERE TO PUT THE BASKET!! WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM? YOU ROLL YOUR EYES AT ME? YOU’RE JUST A CASHIER YOU KNOW! IT ISN’T ROCKET SCIENCE. YOU’RE NOT A DOCTOR.” She is maaaaad. M.A.D. She continues to shout and the cashier walks away to avoid an argument. I finish up my annoying self-service and now I have to get around the shouting lady to exit the store. She moves forward to let me out, and I look down at her. She has lipstick on and I see she’s put some effort into her appearance. The scarf on her head is silk. She’s cute. She looks up at me and says, “I ONLY ASKED HER WHERE TO PUT THE BASKET AND SHE ROLLS HER EYES. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? SO RUDE. SO UNBELIEVABLY RUDE. THIS STORE IS GOING DOWN, IT IS TERRIBLE HERE!”
I have been there. I have. Something sets you off and you can’t stop and everyone else stares at you like you have three heads, which then makes you madder and more vocal about defending your position until you’re causing a major scene in public, which then ends, in my case, in tears at home and the occasional scathing Yelp review. So whenever it’s not me causing the scene, I feel a sense of relief.
See, I am not crazy.
I put my hand on her arm and said, “Don’t let it ruin your day; she just doesn’t like her job.”
Her tension lessened visibly and she reciprocated the arm touch. She replied, ‘SHE DOES HATE HER JOB! SHE’S MISERABLE!” The tone of the shout was calmer and it made me happy to be able to help her feel a little better. I felt badly for the cashier. It’s a tedious job and I imagine sometimes you have to roll your eyes at the old ladies or go insane, and no one wants to be screamed at for such a minor offense. But I liked that I was able to assuage the upset a small bit for this cute little woman, who had put on lipstick to go to the grocery store and merely wanted to be treated nicely when she put away her basket. It was a small moment of human connection that eased my own suffering. So yeah. Wintertime sucks. But I’m hanging in there. Hope you are too.
MISS ANTHROPE'S HOUSE OF HIGH DRAMA 