why i’m an awesome (if slightly perverted) roommate

My sister’s last two final exams of the term took place this Wednesday. When I left that morning for work, she had just gotten in the shower, making it difficult for me to wish her luck the way I’d hoped I might. So, in an effort to compensate for my lack of good luck wishing, I placed an encouraging note atop her study materials, where I knew she’d definitely see it before the test-taking commenced.

On said note, I drew a small pornographic sketch, included appropriately-pointed arrows, and wrote “Good luck on your testicles!” off to the side. And while I doubt a poorly-drawn penis did much for her exam performance, I hope my re"cock"ulous anatomical illustration provided at least a little comic relief in the midst of all those testes.

here i am, peter

Contrary to what my most recent (see: not really that recent) post may suggest, I have not spent the past three weeks watching—or re-watching—episodes of “Beverly Hills, 90210” and subsequently crying over the conclusion of the season one DVD. While I have shed my fair share of tears—including a seven-day, seemingly unprovoked sob-fest at the end February—I’d like to believe they were in no way related to “90210” and its inevitable end.

Truthfully, I’ve spent these weeks focused on feeling better, investing extensive energy into the overall improvement of my mental and physical well-being—and with reassuring success so far.

I attribute much of my relative sanity and surprising contentedness at the moment to the acupuncturing I have continued to receive on a weekly basis since early last month. Those tiny little needles are some mighty powerful medicine, and the incredible woman responsible for inserting said needles into my unexpectedly receptive skin has done more for me in six short sessions than anyone else up to this point. She has somehow managed to help calm my previously uninterrupted anxiety and all too frequent depression, allowing me the mental and emotional space to truly address my deep-seated demons.

My current state of comfort and near-constant contentment still feels fragile, susceptible to disruption and dissolution at any moment should I fail to monitor myself—emotionally and psychologically—with consistency and dedication. But I feel better equipped than I’ve been in the past to face another fall without succumbing to complete hopelessness. That alone is a victory.

Some days I’m afraid my emotional complexities and unpredictability will prevent me from ever being loved, that no man could ever willingly feel affection for a woman as difficult as I sometimes am. And some days that thought is devastating, reinforced by past experiences in which my battle against sadness and self-destruction proved too much for the men with whom I had somehow gotten involved.

I can’t change my past—even the ugliest parts have in some way contributed to the person I’m becoming today. The truth is, I’m not looking to eradicate those undesirable aspects of my history, as I value them for the strength I’ve gained in learning to overcome their influence. And I’m trying—though not always successfully—to believe I’m lovable in spite of their presence in my life.

I’m not sure what point, if any, I’m attempting to make in this post. But I do know I’m making progress, and that’s something, I suppose.