this is my therapy
My friends are finally here. They don’t know it yet, but I have plans to handcuff them around my house, thereby preventing their impending departures and subsequent returns to their respective homes across the country (see: too far away from me).
After only a few short hours of time spent together, I am once again fully aware of why I miss these bitches so much when they’re gone. And it’s not just the spooning and the telling me I’m pretty. It’s sharing space with women who accept and even embrace my insanity even though they can’t always understand its existence.
Women who admitted they’d pay actual money to watch me dance with Justin Timberlake should the opportunity present itself. And while the chances of this happening are undoubtedly slim (or none) and dancing for cash seems sort of shady, I certainly appreciate the compliment and vote of confidence.
And I’ve been practicing a little just in case.
My friends are amazing and crazy and hilarious when inebriated. And they’re not allowed to leave. Law School Schmaw School. I’m way more fun, and a lot less expensive.
Or something.
I make a mean bowl of oatmeal, pour a generous drink, and provide constant entertainment with my often unwise actions. And tomorrow, I’ll introduce them to Mark. Hopefully, the combination of me and My Man will be too intoxicating (literally) to resist, and they’ll decide on their own to stay put in P-Town.
And if not, handcuffs are an excellent means of making them stay anyway. I know they’d thank me later.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
(im)patience is a virtue
In twenty-four hours, my Ohio-residing, tell-it-like-it-is, please-pass-the-ketchup, pantsuit-sporting, much-missed (by me) friend, Leah, will be arriving on my doorstep for the first time in eleven months. And, as I’ve now told her twice in consecutive emails, I might pee my pants from the excitement. And like it.
It’s been a long effing year. Seriously. A long year that flew by far too quickly somehow, and left me in a frustratingly familiar state of uncertainty and ambivalence about my future. And as the year approaches its inevitable end, I vacillate between hating myself for what feel like wasted days and forgiving myself for my myriad mistakes.
I know to regret is to misuse the past and the (not always obvious) growth it has fostered. So I refuse to waste time feeling guilty for actions I’ll never undo—the ill-advised affairs, the surrenders to sadness, the too-much Maker’s I’ve consumed in recent months—and choose to appreciate my frequently foolish behavior for the sometimes ridiculous lessons I’ve learned.
On Sunday, this complicated, unpredictable, emotionally challenging year will finally be over. I can’t wait to celebrate with a woman whose support has been often unwarranted but always consistent. A woman who can party like it’s her job and never fails to bring the fun. A woman whose presence alone guarantees a good time.
Leah, hurry up and get here. Oregon is eagerly anticipating your return. And by Oregon, I mostly mean me.
In twenty-four hours, my Ohio-residing, tell-it-like-it-is, please-pass-the-ketchup, pantsuit-sporting, much-missed (by me) friend, Leah, will be arriving on my doorstep for the first time in eleven months. And, as I’ve now told her twice in consecutive emails, I might pee my pants from the excitement. And like it.
It’s been a long effing year. Seriously. A long year that flew by far too quickly somehow, and left me in a frustratingly familiar state of uncertainty and ambivalence about my future. And as the year approaches its inevitable end, I vacillate between hating myself for what feel like wasted days and forgiving myself for my myriad mistakes.
I know to regret is to misuse the past and the (not always obvious) growth it has fostered. So I refuse to waste time feeling guilty for actions I’ll never undo—the ill-advised affairs, the surrenders to sadness, the too-much Maker’s I’ve consumed in recent months—and choose to appreciate my frequently foolish behavior for the sometimes ridiculous lessons I’ve learned.
On Sunday, this complicated, unpredictable, emotionally challenging year will finally be over. I can’t wait to celebrate with a woman whose support has been often unwarranted but always consistent. A woman who can party like it’s her job and never fails to bring the fun. A woman whose presence alone guarantees a good time.
Leah, hurry up and get here. Oregon is eagerly anticipating your return. And by Oregon, I mostly mean me.
Monday, December 25, 2006
a (mostly) merry christmas
Two years ago, I got the stomach flu for Christmas. The queasiness arrived shortly after breakfast Christmas morning, and escalated into actual vomiting sometime in the early evening, denying me the indulgence of a delicious holiday dinner and keeping me couch-ridden for 36 hours straight. It was an unpleasant experience, to say the least, and certainly not how I had hoped to spend my short, three-day stay with the parents.
Truthfully, though, I was secretly excited I’d gotten sick, and pathetically hoped my bout with the flu would kickstart the weight loss I’d been desperately desiring for myself. For the past four or five years, I’d feared the holiday season for the way it forced me to confront my fear of food even more constantly than normal, for the pounds (even if only two or three) I always seemed to put on, for the way obligatory social interaction went hand-in-hand with the holidays and made my isolated existence temporarily impossible to uphold. Christmas made me anxious and unhappy, and left me feeling inexplicably out of control, roped into traditions (eating, drinking, actually enjoying myself) that stood in stark contrast to my usually-so-limited lifestyle and disrupted my embarrassingly self-obsessed standard.
Last year, I found myself slightly less terrified by Christmas as it approached, and I managed to mostly enjoy the celebrations that ensued, the food that was served, and the socializing in which I (still somewhat obligatorily) engaged. And while the fear of getting fat was still present in my mind, I conquered it enough to remain relatively unaffected by its attempted influence on my psyche. Anxiety struck on occasion that year, but my (sometimes incapacitated) powers of rationality were surprisingly effective in quieting the Crazies and keeping me (more often then not) happy about the holidays.
For me, Christmas—the entire month, in fact—has always been preceded by fear and followed by the guilt of overindulgence, fueled by an avid distaste for my body and an all-consuming obsession with Thin. But this year has been decidedly different, refreshingly devoid of food-induced fear, and generally free of social anxiety. Having finally made some (it’s a constantly fluctuating condition) peace with this uniquely (and sometimes frustratingly flawed) body, I am actually able to appreciate this holiday without the distraction of physical trivialities, enjoying the wine and the waffles and the time away from work without worry of weight-related repercussions.
So, in spite of spending my first Christmas away from my soon-to-be-visiting parents, I have thoroughly enjoyed this day. And while the depression of which I have previously written is most certainly not gone for good, I feel as though the mask of superficiality—of external symptoms alone—is beginning to be shed, allowing me access to once avoided truths, and the courage to confront them on a more consistent basis. This alone has made for a happy (relatively speaking, of course) holiday, indeed.
Two years ago, I got the stomach flu for Christmas. The queasiness arrived shortly after breakfast Christmas morning, and escalated into actual vomiting sometime in the early evening, denying me the indulgence of a delicious holiday dinner and keeping me couch-ridden for 36 hours straight. It was an unpleasant experience, to say the least, and certainly not how I had hoped to spend my short, three-day stay with the parents.
Truthfully, though, I was secretly excited I’d gotten sick, and pathetically hoped my bout with the flu would kickstart the weight loss I’d been desperately desiring for myself. For the past four or five years, I’d feared the holiday season for the way it forced me to confront my fear of food even more constantly than normal, for the pounds (even if only two or three) I always seemed to put on, for the way obligatory social interaction went hand-in-hand with the holidays and made my isolated existence temporarily impossible to uphold. Christmas made me anxious and unhappy, and left me feeling inexplicably out of control, roped into traditions (eating, drinking, actually enjoying myself) that stood in stark contrast to my usually-so-limited lifestyle and disrupted my embarrassingly self-obsessed standard.
Last year, I found myself slightly less terrified by Christmas as it approached, and I managed to mostly enjoy the celebrations that ensued, the food that was served, and the socializing in which I (still somewhat obligatorily) engaged. And while the fear of getting fat was still present in my mind, I conquered it enough to remain relatively unaffected by its attempted influence on my psyche. Anxiety struck on occasion that year, but my (sometimes incapacitated) powers of rationality were surprisingly effective in quieting the Crazies and keeping me (more often then not) happy about the holidays.
For me, Christmas—the entire month, in fact—has always been preceded by fear and followed by the guilt of overindulgence, fueled by an avid distaste for my body and an all-consuming obsession with Thin. But this year has been decidedly different, refreshingly devoid of food-induced fear, and generally free of social anxiety. Having finally made some (it’s a constantly fluctuating condition) peace with this uniquely (and sometimes frustratingly flawed) body, I am actually able to appreciate this holiday without the distraction of physical trivialities, enjoying the wine and the waffles and the time away from work without worry of weight-related repercussions.
So, in spite of spending my first Christmas away from my soon-to-be-visiting parents, I have thoroughly enjoyed this day. And while the depression of which I have previously written is most certainly not gone for good, I feel as though the mask of superficiality—of external symptoms alone—is beginning to be shed, allowing me access to once avoided truths, and the courage to confront them on a more consistent basis. This alone has made for a happy (relatively speaking, of course) holiday, indeed.
Friday, December 22, 2006
game over
After realizing a relationship of a legitimate and committed nature with the previously-kissed cute boy of postage past would be an ill-advised (and ultimately unsuccessful) venture, I attempted to cultivate a completely platonic friendship with said boy, but was forced to admit to failure when I woke up in his bed the morning following our first supposedly friendly engagement. Oops.
As a result of this overnight encounter, I began to rethink the relationship entirely, believing the old Friends With Benefits arrangement I so adored in my college days might make sense in this situation as well. And with one evening of post break-up kissing already under our belts (with no apparent emotional damage done), I was confident we could make it work.
Until Wednesday night, when the ego of the now-not-as-cute boy* foiled my oh so brilliant plan.
Over the course of nearly five hours, the boy consumed several healthy servings of Jim Bean Bourbon Whiskey, becoming increasingly (and predictably) more intoxicated as a result of his indulgence. In this same time period, I managed only two drinks of the same kind, even clocking an hour-long movie-induced nap while the boy continued in his alcoholic consumption.
As the movie came to an end and I awoke from my cinemagic sleep, the kissing commenced, initiated—I believe—with equal interest from both sides. And after three weeks of my two lips kissing nothing but each other, I was more than ready for a little nonobligatory lip action. Unfortunately, my partner decided to spoil the moment with an “I’m afraid I’m taking advantage of you” declaration.
Enter annoyance.
Because I was. Annoyed, that is. I was doing my best to take advantage of my clearly-more-inebriated-than-me ManFriend, but his pride wouldn’t let him forfeit control and enjoy being used by a relatively attractive female uninterested in next day expectations or exclusivity. Talk about ruining the fun for the sake of saving face.
The kissing of the formerly-cute boy is now over for good. Consider this post my no-kiss guarantee. At least until I find a man who knows that overcompensating for insecurity with egoism is not particularly attractive, or conducive to making out.
*After hearing from this boy three times in recent weeks that he finds himself attractive, I am less inclined to believe it myself.
After realizing a relationship of a legitimate and committed nature with the previously-kissed cute boy of postage past would be an ill-advised (and ultimately unsuccessful) venture, I attempted to cultivate a completely platonic friendship with said boy, but was forced to admit to failure when I woke up in his bed the morning following our first supposedly friendly engagement. Oops.
As a result of this overnight encounter, I began to rethink the relationship entirely, believing the old Friends With Benefits arrangement I so adored in my college days might make sense in this situation as well. And with one evening of post break-up kissing already under our belts (with no apparent emotional damage done), I was confident we could make it work.
Until Wednesday night, when the ego of the now-not-as-cute boy* foiled my oh so brilliant plan.
Over the course of nearly five hours, the boy consumed several healthy servings of Jim Bean Bourbon Whiskey, becoming increasingly (and predictably) more intoxicated as a result of his indulgence. In this same time period, I managed only two drinks of the same kind, even clocking an hour-long movie-induced nap while the boy continued in his alcoholic consumption.
As the movie came to an end and I awoke from my cinemagic sleep, the kissing commenced, initiated—I believe—with equal interest from both sides. And after three weeks of my two lips kissing nothing but each other, I was more than ready for a little nonobligatory lip action. Unfortunately, my partner decided to spoil the moment with an “I’m afraid I’m taking advantage of you” declaration.
Enter annoyance.
Because I was. Annoyed, that is. I was doing my best to take advantage of my clearly-more-inebriated-than-me ManFriend, but his pride wouldn’t let him forfeit control and enjoy being used by a relatively attractive female uninterested in next day expectations or exclusivity. Talk about ruining the fun for the sake of saving face.
The kissing of the formerly-cute boy is now over for good. Consider this post my no-kiss guarantee. At least until I find a man who knows that overcompensating for insecurity with egoism is not particularly attractive, or conducive to making out.
*After hearing from this boy three times in recent weeks that he finds himself attractive, I am less inclined to believe it myself.
Friday, December 15, 2006
a self-indulgent update
My favorite East Coast cousin has inquired as to my current fence-sitting status, requesting an update with regard to my last (and apologetically depressing) post from late last week. Unfortunately, I am still perched pathetically atop the same indecisive fence, sporting an embarrassing barbed-wired wedgie, and working up the courage to choose one side or the other. There have been several short-lived dismounts in recent days, during which I have seriously considered a more proactive approach to confronting my so-often-sad self, only to later reject this decision and return to the safety of my previously occupied fence-riding position. I am currently stuck in a state of frustrating stagnation and uncertainty, searching for much-needed (and elusive) inspiration to incite myself to action.
To sum it up, I’m not doing much better, but—on the bright side—I’m not doing much worse, either. That’s something, I suppose.
I am also more acutely aware of exactly which side of this fence my stubborn ass belongs, even if I can’t quite get there right now. So, I’m motivating myself with the hope that screwing my pride and embracing rationality (however that may eventually look) will revive my recently departed (and very missed) personality. Because, rumor has it, I used to be fun.
My favorite East Coast cousin has inquired as to my current fence-sitting status, requesting an update with regard to my last (and apologetically depressing) post from late last week. Unfortunately, I am still perched pathetically atop the same indecisive fence, sporting an embarrassing barbed-wired wedgie, and working up the courage to choose one side or the other. There have been several short-lived dismounts in recent days, during which I have seriously considered a more proactive approach to confronting my so-often-sad self, only to later reject this decision and return to the safety of my previously occupied fence-riding position. I am currently stuck in a state of frustrating stagnation and uncertainty, searching for much-needed (and elusive) inspiration to incite myself to action.
To sum it up, I’m not doing much better, but—on the bright side—I’m not doing much worse, either. That’s something, I suppose.
I am also more acutely aware of exactly which side of this fence my stubborn ass belongs, even if I can’t quite get there right now. So, I’m motivating myself with the hope that screwing my pride and embracing rationality (however that may eventually look) will revive my recently departed (and very missed) personality. Because, rumor has it, I used to be fun.
Friday, December 8, 2006
yes, even more self-indulgent blather
As a result of my participation in NaBloPoMo, it seems everyone is onto me and my less-than-happy-to-be-here condition. Apparently, the latter half of my daily posts sold me out, with their generally depressing tone and frequent reference to alcoholic, sexual and dangerous-nighttime-running escape routes. My inability to not spill my own proverbial beans has caught up with me again, striking fear into the hearts of others with regard to my psychological well-being, even causing The Parents to threaten a surprise visit in the immediate future should I fail to prove I’m improving.
I’ve been sad these past few weeks, it’s true, with the worst of it hitting this past Saturday, leaving me uninterested in (and seemingly unable to) extract myself from bed and actually interact with the world instead of alternately sobbing and sleeping for hours. A pretty pathetic picture, I know.
The good news is, I’m feeling much better. Last night, I spent five entire hours engaged in conversation with real life people not forced upon me by the obligations of my customer service industry job. After days upon days of avoiding social interactions I am not getting (under)paid to perform, I (shockingly, even to me) initiated a dinner date with friends and actually (gasp!) enjoyed myself. Imagine that.
I have mentioned before that the sadness is cyclical in nature—always impermanent, but always inevitable (or so it seems). Thus, even as I bask in my current and acceptable level of contentment, I sit in fear of my next confrontation with frustratingly familiar unhappiness. And the more accustomed I become to the predictable return of that sadness, the less able I am to enjoy the Happy while it’s here—however brief that stay may be each time.
As I write these words, I recognize the ridiculousness of allowing myself to succumb to the despair by accepting the certainty of its regular arrival. Still, I am resistant to the effort involved in altering this pattern, fearful my energy might be wasted on ultimately ineffective means of bringing about change. I’m mostly exhausted by now—both emotionally and physically—as a result of frequently facing and enduring destructive emotions I feel powerless to eradicate. And I’m starting to resent my inability to JUST BE HAPPY DAMMIT on my own terms, the possibility I may simply be ill-equipped to do so effectively.
Truthfully, I’m angry as hell about being forced to face down the sadness so often and feeling powerless to prevent its effects. I’ve embraced the Happy several times this past year, eager to embody it once and for all—even declared myself finally and triumphantly happy—only to find myself entrenched soon thereafter in the same despair and depression. If being happy was as easy as wanting to be and trying to be and saying I am, I would have been so several times over already.
Being sad is a fully physical sensation for me, powerful, like the blood I’m pumping has suddenly been altered in composition and consistency. Unhappiness like that is heavy and relentless, and it’s frighteningly ubiquitous. And even when I promise to never enable my unhappiness again, I am somehow unable to prevent its arrival. Those feelings of overwhelming sadness show up uninvited every time.
Right now, I’m riding the fence about what to do next, if anything at all. My defiantly independent side wants to wait it out like I always have, denying my depression the satisfaction of knowing I couldn’t conquer it on my own. My much more rational, screw-my-pride side wants to finally admit defeat and let someone much more qualified intimidate my sadness into submission.
I can’t wait to see who wins.
(For the record, I’m cheering for the underdog. Raise a pompom to rationality if you feel so inclined. She could use the support.)
As a result of my participation in NaBloPoMo, it seems everyone is onto me and my less-than-happy-to-be-here condition. Apparently, the latter half of my daily posts sold me out, with their generally depressing tone and frequent reference to alcoholic, sexual and dangerous-nighttime-running escape routes. My inability to not spill my own proverbial beans has caught up with me again, striking fear into the hearts of others with regard to my psychological well-being, even causing The Parents to threaten a surprise visit in the immediate future should I fail to prove I’m improving.
I’ve been sad these past few weeks, it’s true, with the worst of it hitting this past Saturday, leaving me uninterested in (and seemingly unable to) extract myself from bed and actually interact with the world instead of alternately sobbing and sleeping for hours. A pretty pathetic picture, I know.
The good news is, I’m feeling much better. Last night, I spent five entire hours engaged in conversation with real life people not forced upon me by the obligations of my customer service industry job. After days upon days of avoiding social interactions I am not getting (under)paid to perform, I (shockingly, even to me) initiated a dinner date with friends and actually (gasp!) enjoyed myself. Imagine that.
I have mentioned before that the sadness is cyclical in nature—always impermanent, but always inevitable (or so it seems). Thus, even as I bask in my current and acceptable level of contentment, I sit in fear of my next confrontation with frustratingly familiar unhappiness. And the more accustomed I become to the predictable return of that sadness, the less able I am to enjoy the Happy while it’s here—however brief that stay may be each time.
As I write these words, I recognize the ridiculousness of allowing myself to succumb to the despair by accepting the certainty of its regular arrival. Still, I am resistant to the effort involved in altering this pattern, fearful my energy might be wasted on ultimately ineffective means of bringing about change. I’m mostly exhausted by now—both emotionally and physically—as a result of frequently facing and enduring destructive emotions I feel powerless to eradicate. And I’m starting to resent my inability to JUST BE HAPPY DAMMIT on my own terms, the possibility I may simply be ill-equipped to do so effectively.
Truthfully, I’m angry as hell about being forced to face down the sadness so often and feeling powerless to prevent its effects. I’ve embraced the Happy several times this past year, eager to embody it once and for all—even declared myself finally and triumphantly happy—only to find myself entrenched soon thereafter in the same despair and depression. If being happy was as easy as wanting to be and trying to be and saying I am, I would have been so several times over already.
Being sad is a fully physical sensation for me, powerful, like the blood I’m pumping has suddenly been altered in composition and consistency. Unhappiness like that is heavy and relentless, and it’s frighteningly ubiquitous. And even when I promise to never enable my unhappiness again, I am somehow unable to prevent its arrival. Those feelings of overwhelming sadness show up uninvited every time.
Right now, I’m riding the fence about what to do next, if anything at all. My defiantly independent side wants to wait it out like I always have, denying my depression the satisfaction of knowing I couldn’t conquer it on my own. My much more rational, screw-my-pride side wants to finally admit defeat and let someone much more qualified intimidate my sadness into submission.
I can’t wait to see who wins.
(For the record, I’m cheering for the underdog. Raise a pompom to rationality if you feel so inclined. She could use the support.)
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
my rebound for my rebound was my rebound
Last week, the kissing of the cute boy recommenced. And now I’m questioning my decision to once again engage in activities of the lip-locking (and more) nature with the cute boy in question, as my motives are not entirely clear—even to me.
Part of me fears I have re-entered this relationship (of sorts) as a distraction from the less-than-glamorous reality I might otherwise be forced to face. Part of me believes the behavior is nothing more than a harmless manifestation of my enthusiasm for the Kissing in general. And part of me knows I’m still rebounding from a previous relationship, the ending of which I never fully confronted for the emotions I couldn’t quite allow myself to feel.
To be fair, I have warned the cute boy that my intentions are not entirely clear, that my ability to engage in a fully functioning relationship is questionable, and that I am—most likely—too much trouble to be worth his (or anyone else’s) time.
Having adequately outlined this disclaimer before any actual kissing commenced, I feel relatively guilt-free about my choice to get fresh with my one-time ManFriend once again, believing he is adult enough to say no should he believe that to be best.
And fairly certain he won't make the same mistake twice.
Or that he will. Depending upon how you look at it.
Last week, the kissing of the cute boy recommenced. And now I’m questioning my decision to once again engage in activities of the lip-locking (and more) nature with the cute boy in question, as my motives are not entirely clear—even to me.
Part of me fears I have re-entered this relationship (of sorts) as a distraction from the less-than-glamorous reality I might otherwise be forced to face. Part of me believes the behavior is nothing more than a harmless manifestation of my enthusiasm for the Kissing in general. And part of me knows I’m still rebounding from a previous relationship, the ending of which I never fully confronted for the emotions I couldn’t quite allow myself to feel.
To be fair, I have warned the cute boy that my intentions are not entirely clear, that my ability to engage in a fully functioning relationship is questionable, and that I am—most likely—too much trouble to be worth his (or anyone else’s) time.
Having adequately outlined this disclaimer before any actual kissing commenced, I feel relatively guilt-free about my choice to get fresh with my one-time ManFriend once again, believing he is adult enough to say no should he believe that to be best.
And fairly certain he won't make the same mistake twice.
Or that he will. Depending upon how you look at it.
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