Despicable Me

I am legitimately shocked and awed by how fucking awful this feels. I am living alone. I am alone and eating ramen. Depressed as hell. Be careful what you fucking wish for. It’s only Tuesday. I have only been alone since Sunday morning. Regardless, I have cried every day, starting that morning around 6:20am. I’m finally mourning. Doubly mourning. I know I have to go through this to get to the other side. Like the chicken I’ve been feeling like at work lately. The one without a head. There is so much I want to say. So much I feel I have to hide. I’m tired of hiding.  

Small details: I had planned on going to the gym after work. Instead, I made a conscious decision to allow myself to fall deeper into this sadness. I made a conscious decision to buy a bottle of Irish whiskey (it makes me feel connected to so many things). I made a conscious decision to not make real food. I say I don’t care but it’s because I do care so much that everything weighs on me so heavily. So heavily that bottle follows bottle in a futile effort to stop the pain and disappointment that I feel. Being aware of what I’m doing makes it that much more painful.

So many things are going through my head right now. Thoughts and feelings. Especially “STOP!” But not a positive stop. It’s “stop writing, stop thinking, go to the couch and turn on the tv, forget all this.” But that doesn’t stop it, only delays.

“I don’t know” and “I’m so sorry.” The two most common refrains I hear come out of my mouth or that run through my head. I wish I could say “Yes,” and “I love you” and “Help me.” “Please.” And that I could accept help. And love. It’s enough to make me turn to Jesus, I swear.

I wish I could be less stubborn. Open and gracious and forgiving instead of glancing sideways at everyone and everything offered. Yet still being taken advantage of. That I could work with instead of against. You and me.

There are so many truths about me that I find disturbing. Truths that I have trouble voicing. Truths that make me despicable. Using and abusing. I realized not long after I moved out that I am not necessarily a “good” person. I do what I need to do to survive. Yet people still call me a saint. People still want to help me. People think I am good. It’s not goodness, it’s self-preservation and idiocy. Being who I need to be to get by. Denying myself, hiding myself. Fronting.

That’s all bullshit, that last paragraph. I victimize myself and blame others for making me unhappy. Because I am unhappy and I’m too chicken-shit to do anything about it.

You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone.

I don’t deserve all the chances people give me. Yet I do. Because I care so much. Because I’ve been hurt so much. By other people who were hurt before me. And it goes on and on. The legacy of hurt. 

Fuck. How did I end up here?

Fear. Fear that I’ve lost another friend. Because of my fear. Because of second-guesses and outside pressure. (Incompatibility and desperation? Insecurity?)

Why can’t I just sit with myself? Why am I so afraid of myself? Because I know how despicable I am? God, that’s depressing. Because I know how much I hurt. I know how much pain is inside of me. And how much rage and anger. And that does scare me. It makes me of absolutely no use to anyone.

So here I am. Finally alone. And scared to death of what I’ll discover. Yet I know I am searching for something in others that I can only find in myself and I’m no good to anyone until I find it.



But do not ask the price I paid,
I must live with my quiet rage,
Tame the ghosts in my head,
That run wild and wish me dead.
Should you shake my ash to the wind
Lord, forget all of my sins
Or let me die where I lie
Neath the curse of my lover's eyes.

And I'll walk slow, I'll walk slow
Take my hand, help me on my way.
And I'll walk slow, I'll walk slow
Take my hand, I'll be on my way.

Interpretation, or, Go Fuck Yourself

I had one of those dreams last night.

I often have dreams where I am trapped, unable to find my way out of a building or location and that's what was going on last night. All the windows were old and either wouldn't open or were too small but most importantly all of them were just too high to jump from. I was in Cecil County and Chris was with me and one other person who wasn't really identifiable. We all climbed this hill and got inside the building but for some reason it was just me who ended up being what I can only describe as an indentured servant to the people living there, this woman and her elderly mother. What I was doing isn't important. It involved making sure tour groups got up and down the hill safely, there was a railroad trestle and water... Anyway, I ended up alone and I didn't want to be there, I didn't want to be doing this job, but I couldn't escape. Inside the building where these two women lived it was like an episode of Hoarders but every once in a while I'd get a glimpse of this pristine bedroom and bathroom which were somehow off limits to me and I knew I'd get in trouble if I were caught in there. Eventually I escaped, but I don't remember how, and I found Chris and the mystery person again.

But here's the fucked up part: This all happened in one day. And the next day I went back to do it all over again.

Witness my insanity.

How fast can you run?

Shit is just fucked. Nothing has... I feel like I have no control over anything. I moved out because I needed space, because I wanted to be alone... But nothing has worked out like I'd hoped or planned. And I am so angry I can't stand it and I don't see a way out. And it's my own fucking fault. For being such an idiot, for believing in someone, for trusting someone. When I should have known. I should have known. I wasn't and am not in the right space for this to be happening. I feel used and taken advantage of. And so, so angry. I just want what I wanted: To be alone. To work through things. To have my own space. To fucking watch tv as loud as I want. Alone. 

The Great Divide

This fucking depression is killing me. And the stress. And the “OH MY GOD, WHAT HAVE I DONE?” aspect of it all.

That’s right, I’m going to talk about this.

This past week has been hell. There was the monthly blood-letting, the oppressive humidity, then the spider bite, then the spider bite infection (thankfully the visit to the urgent care center and the antibiotics I had to get on Friday evening were both free), I slept til about 5pm Saturday, woke up, showered, then realized I had nowhere to go. So I went to get beer. Which was when I realized I had parked in a handicapped spot and gotten a $75 ticket. On the way out of the beer store, something in my back just, like, snapped and the pain was so intense I thought I was going to fall over right there on the sidewalk. I remember being really drunk last night, taking a bath, sending weird messages to strangers. Today I didn’t go to work, I don’t even know why. But I do have diarrhea and what I think are the beginnings of a yeast infection from the antibiotics. Sweet.

Throughout all of this there have been copious amounts of tears. It’s still three weeks until I can move out and mourn in peace. Three weeks until I find out if I can even manage to live on my own, a thing I’ve never done. Made all the more thrilling because of how alone I feel. When I feel like I have three friends in the whole world who I can talk to about this and none of them live in the same city as me. Philadelphia, Brunswick, MD, and Holland aren’t really within “Can you come over? I need company” distance.

God, I just want to sleep.

But this is what I want, right? Yes. I made this decision. It’s going to eventually be the best thing for both of us... But right now? Right now there is nothing I can do. Three weeks. It’s already been about 3 weeks since the decision was made and I’m just waiting. Feeling awkward and uncomfortable. My head hurts. My back hurts. I just want to feel comfortable somewhere. To not be scared out of my mind for an hour or two. To breathe and be able to think for a minute in a space of my own.

Three weeks.

I don't know what you might already know about what's going on, some of you know more than others, of course, and I know many of you have been through this, but I have no fucking idea what I'm doing. I am about to embark on something so positively terrifying that yesterday I couldn't even, I mean literally, get out of bed. Yet it's something that millions of people do all the time. I know, I just know, that for the sake of both our futures and our future happiness that this needs to happen no matter how much it hurts right now.

So I came across someone's life to-do list on XOJane and now I'm stealing a bunch of things from other peoples' lists and adding some items of my own. So many corny clichés have been running through my head this morning so why not just fucking go with it. The only way forward is through. Amiright?

Here's my part stolen/part original list:

Stop thinking about the ending when you're still at the beginning.
Never, ever, EVER fucking give up.
Stop being so fucking scared.
Take risks.
Don't look back.
Be selfish.
Save yourself.
Do not regret.
Do not be ashamed.
Never abandon yourself.
Be patient with yourself.
Be self-sufficient.
Stop hurting yourself.
Own a pair of Frye boots. (I totally forgot about this one! Any of these will do.)
Value experiences over things.
Find happiness within yourself.
Listen to your heart.
Be able to write that without starting to sing that vomitous Roxette song.
Listen to your body.
(Do more yoga.)
Consult your head but don't always let it win.
Do not take friendships for granted, especially when they're so scarce. 

There's no fucking point to this post except to let you know that I'm terrified, scared about what I'm about to lose yet sadly hopeful about the future. 

Changes: That Shit Cray

At about 3pm yesterday (Sunday) I smoked my *last* cigarette. Around 8pm today (Monday) I smoked what I guess was my *first* cigarette. The internal debate went on for hours and involved a lot of bargaining. With myself. I will not regret my decision. Allen has control of them now. This will end in tears. As it began. I cried, no, I sobbed, for almost a solid two hours, mourning my cigarettes as though my best friend in the world had just died. I also realized I was feeling homesick for the old apartment. "I want to go home!" I wailed. This has been a common exclamation throughout my life. I'm always looking to go "home", wherever that is. But I'm sure it exists somewhere and I will know it when I get there.

I wish I had the same interest in keeping up with this blog as I used to have. I just. Do. Not.

It's 8:40pm. I already want to smoke again.

I am too hard on myself. People actually say this to me. If I was so hard on myself I wouldn't be slowly destroying myself. I'd be cutting this shit out. If I actually believed in self-preservation as much as I think I do I wouldn't be drinking and smoking and sedentary-ing myself straight to dementia and death. I am a curious mix of my mother and father. Or listening to fucking Pitchfork's Top 100 Adult Contemporary Hits of 2011.

But do you want to know the main reason I'm trying to quit smoking -- right now, that is -- ??? Because I'm going to New York this weekend and I'm afraid I won't be able to smoke in Mayor Micro-manager's town. Swear to Jesus that's what's been going on in my head about this. A friend of mine is presenting at HOPE Number Nine. And I'm going because I want to stick out like a sore thumb or something.

Fuck. What have I done? I'm still exhausted from Sob-Fest 2012. I have no concentration, not enough time in the day for the things I want to do.

I have 4 projects I need to work on but have only ever so slightly started working on two of them. And so it goes.

There is just something in my head that blocks me. I already felt better (physically) after 26 hours of not smoking. I feel better, good, even, during the day when I haven't drank the night before. But something in me tells me that I don't deserve that feeling. I'd rather be fuzzy and cloudy and sluggish, just unclear, rather than feel "good". There's a lot of "I don't deserve _________" that goes on in my head.

Fucking therapy. It's wrecking me. I'm waiting until tomorrow to call my therapist to tell her I can't make my Thursday appointment in hopes that she won't be able to fit me in on Wednesday. Last week was brutal. I just... I don't even remember what exactly she asked me that made me start crying but it happened. And I was like, "I don't even have a reason to be crying right now." And she goes, "Obviously you do." Which of course made it worse. And she keeps asking about my parents like I don't tell her the same thing every god damn week. Does she not remember or is she fucking with me? Cos she remembers other things.

No, it wasn't my father. It was my mother. It was always my mother. And my sisters. They gave me these labels. The men in my family always loved me. This is complicated. It explains everything. It really does.

Yet she's strangely been affecting my self-esteem. By telling me that my drinking (her main focus) is greatly reducing my self-esteem she's somehow increasing it. I don't know. She's crafty.

This one's dedicated to Schulze. Damn her.

XO... Jen

It's cold out here. Cold, okay? I'm thinking about my Mellow Yellow fingernails and my Air blue toenails while sitting on the deck with the tiki torches lit and drinking Golden Monkey and chain smoking.

Babies, I've seen a new therapist for two sessions. Babies, I've been reading xoJane like it's my new Jezebel because it is. Cat's back. No, I'm not going to start one of my "I don't understand the ladies" rants... as easy as that might be.

What was I going to start? (Are you my lady doctor, "my lady"?) I had the horrible realization today, while talking with her, that I've been here before. I think she likes me, for the usual reasons: I'm smart, I get it... But I don't. That's why I'm there. I know. But I don't. It's the same old song and dance. Me me me me me. The same me from 2005. The same me from 1999. The same me who knows what to do but is too afraid to do it.

I was sitting there today thinking, "HELP ME", knowing the whole time that only I can help myself. So I listed off my 4 main reasons for being there and she said something like, "well, you're here to make yourself stronger, so you can make these changes." We've talked about all 4 of my issues in two 50-minute sessions. Now what?

Stare off into space.

That's how I talk about important things. Staring off into space.

"Does [this happen]?"
"... No ..."
"Does [that happen]?"
"... No ... Eh. No. Not really."

Hmm. I get the feeling she wants drama. I tend to downplay things. Yet dream the drama.

"Yes."
"No."
"Yes!"
"No!"

It's not that.

Two nights a week. "Two."

"Do you think you could commit to only [doing this thing] twice a week?"
"I could..."
"Will you?"
"I will."

Knowing I was lying the whole time.

"We should keep you broke."
"Ha, ha... ha."

"You should write about it." Journaling she said. Fuck me. I do. And it's always the same thing, over and over again.
"Bring it," she said.

She just found the key to my heart.

Oh, I will. I will bring it, sister.

Reek. It Rhymes with Seek.

I keep telling myself I'm going to come up with something. Something as great as the three-part brilliance that was the story of my father's funeral. Something as absurd as the history of "Tainted Love" trilogy. I've been mildly perturbed at (or with, you choose) myself for not having more to say about my mother's funeral but it was a very different situation. And I was drunk the entire fucking time. Like literally. There was a lot of drinking that week. I was sitting in the front row during the eulogy drinking straight vodka out of a water bottle. When it was time for the after-party I was wasted and didn't even notice that my 18 year old nephew was also drunk and just randomly yelling nigger and faggot from the corner of the kitchen.

We can't have nice things.

I guess I'm kinda telling a story about it now so let me add that after B. scared everyone away and K. came back with his room mate and co., I got blazed and remember D.'s brother telling us a story about how his baby had died recently. I also remember asking said brother where he was from because he was very New Jersey. He's from Elkton. He took me saying he seemed Jersey as a compliment. Kids.

Something happened to my original image so here's a photo of the outside of "BG Books"
(My sisters have a used bookstore here. In Elkton. BG stands for Big Girls.)

But I don't know. I'm here. Here. My stomach has been trying to kill me the last few days. In retaliation, I assume, for my hedonistic behavior that started with PMS and ended(?) with my birthday weekend. Turns out you can gain 5 pounds in two weeks. You just have to work at it.

Yeah, that's whatever. She said, as she ate another piece of chocolate.

I'm going on a solo adventure this weekend. The crazy part is that I'll be driving. All the way to Philly. By myself. In the White Knight of Texas. If something deeply upsetting doesn't happen during my travels I'll be fucking surprised.

I need more anger. I think that's what's been missing. Or a decent celebrity crush. (Mind your business.) I've been stagnant and bored with just everything. I hate admitting that I'm bored. The whole "if you're bored then you're boring" thing. I don't want to be boring.

I want to be adored. I want everyone to love me. Which is total bullshit because the actual stress from that isn't any fun, either. Even a little bit of attention does my head in.

I never know what I want. Except the total eradication of all insects.

Indomitable spirit. That's what I have. Am I right?


I'm reposting this, from August 2010. Because I can and because I listened to it tonight and it's not half bad. And I didn't cry while listening to track 7. I think that's a first.

I've been thinking a lot of uncomfortable "thinks" lately. To commemorate this I've made another mixtape for you. It's called "Sad Sack" (that's the link) and I am not providing artists or titles in an attempt to avoid prejudice.  Although, I did provide some sample lyrics so you could figure out the songs from that. JFGI.

1. How it feels to hate yourself because of your appearance.
     "I wish you'd see yourself as beautiful as I see you."

2. How it feels to have to fake being ok every day.
    "Do you want me to smile? Well, I'll try."

3. How it feels to not have any control.
    "C'mon, mood, shift, shift back to good again. C'mon, be a friend."

4. How it feels to interact with other people.
    "I wish you the best, you snake."

5. How it feels to know your dreams, and the dreams of those you love the most, will never come true.  See song 6.
    "May all of your dreams come true."

6. How it feels to grow up poor.
    "Tell 'em all they can kiss our asses goodbye."

7. How it feels to know too much about your parents' relationship and how it has affected every aspect of your life. I am being dead serious when I tell you that I can't listen to this song without crying like a baby.

    "Because of you I find it hard to trust not only me but everyone around me."

8. How it feels to be constantly fucked over. See songs 5 and 6.
    "Must I weep and mourn?"

9. How it feels to fuck up when you're young.
    "She's feeling more alone than she ever has before."

10. How it feels to love someone who's just as fucked up as you are.
       "You're not free now; you're not innocent; you're transparent; and you're right."

11. How it feels when a friend dies and you know he was a better person than you'll ever be.
      "Goodbye my friend."

12. How it feels to feel ok sometimes. Even if it's artificial.
       "For all the shit, for all the dear departed, for all the war, we've still got beer."

13. How it feels to get older.
       "I'd rather stay here in my room; nothin' out there but sad and gloom."  

14. How it feels to keep on livin.'
       "Don't let them bring you down and don't let them fuck you around cuz those are your arms, that is your heart and no, no, they can't tear you apart."

Panic Button

I'm having one of my "going quiet" episodes brought on by an impending job search. Or at least I think that's what it is.

I've been trying to write everyday on my lunch break and it feels like each day I have less and less to say. Or I'm just repeating the same things over and over again. Yesterday there was this: "I know. I'm totally blank. Because I should be doing at this point. Not thinking."

But it's the idea of "doing" that triggers the panic. (We could get into some deep psychological shit if I were to start unpacking that sentence.) And then I mentally (and physically) shut down and I'm just "no, no, no, no, no. I'm going to stay here where it's safe. Here inside myself, inside my head, here inside this apartment, inside this windowless office at work. It's okay here. It's not so bad." When really I want to scream and break things. And escape.

Forgive me for what I'm about to do here, I know he can be hard to take. I may have mentioned... no, actually I don't think I ever finished writing that, about how much I identify with Kanye West. I think it's still a draft. Anyway. It probably won't be clear to you but I have a special affinity for this song. We're both assholes.

Last night I just sat on the couch, watching TV, not even looking for anyone to talk to online. "No, no, no, no, no." The Killing, Mad Men, Drag Race. All the while eating the candy and drinking the sweet, sweet Coca-Cola I bought at Target after work. Thinking, fuck it. All the while wishing I was fucking drunk. Then I went to bed.

It's always the same. I know I just have to give it time. I'll come out of it. When it has to be done I'll do it. Sometimes it's just nice to succumb to the desire to hide and eat like an asshole, even knowing the whole time that you're only hurting yourself. Because you feel like you deserve it. And I know how to hurt myself best.

God. Even writing this is making me anxious. I've got that weak, shaky feeling you get. Do you know that one? Just from writing. And my hands are all sweaty. I'm a god damn mess.

But I'll come out of it. 

I Demand a Recount.

Guys, guys, guys! My birthday is coming up. It's a big one and, as usual, I haven't made any plans. Story of my life. No plans.

I mean, there are a couple of big ones I'm working on. Moving back to Philly being the main plan right now. Yeah, yeah, yeah. We've been here before. 2 years ago. I think it's all about Wawa. But I've updated my resume (last week), made an application on Penn's website (this week), maybe next week I'll actually start applying for jobs. Five months isn't a long time. You get used to living in PGH and it's hard to get out... you get lazy and used to paying your bills.

But I'm getting old. And I know it's overly dramatic but the other day I literally wrote that if I don't get out of here soon it's going to be a death sentence. I can't die here. I have better things to do.

I'm in a panic about bringing it up to my boss, though, because he's an old man who has told me and everyone else repeatedly that I can't leave him because his dead wife sent me to him and if I leave her ghost will haunt me. He says this. I think he's only half joking. But the thing is, I could really use his help with finding a job. GRR!

And I know I'm kind of PMS-y right now. And I have to pay taxes, another reason Pittsburgh has been fucked up. We've never owed money until we came here. Trying to find a job stresses me the fuck out. Our clothes dryer stopped working. I'm blaming Heather and all the weird shit she puts in there like boots and stuffed animals. No one's called about it being broken, though. Why would we? My birthday, needing a haircut, grocery shopping, driving to Philly at the end of the month, all these things are stressing me out. And I'm tired, very, very tired. Don't even get me started on the drinking, or rather the trying not to drink and the cake and the McDonald's, potato chips...

Yet I'm feeling strangely optimistic right now.

I know. 

Status Retort

28 March

Every night this week I've been like, I'm going to write and work on my resume and look for a job and watch this movie. It hasn't happened.

Did I ever tell you about the time I started crying (!) while listening to "Firework" by Katy Perry? That was a shitty night.

I ate two double cheeseburgers from McDonald's yesterday (because I wanted to) and still weighed a pound less this morning than I did yesterday. That was a neat trick. Food issues.

The best shiz evar.

I need more time.

Wow. WOW. That's some fucknasty shit The Sir just had. Jesus. I have to switch rooms.

Btw, I would totally snort coke off a dick. Just for reference. Know that I would do that. You're welcome.

I need to look at photos. Take photos. I wanted to tell stories, like I said in the last entry. But I haven't gotten around to that either. Addiction issues.

I have trouble writing honestly. Even in my personal writing. I can't let go. I haven't even been able to think well the last few days.

Ugh. Anyway. Day the next.

29 March.

Allen's birthday. We went to Salt tonight and it was ah-mezin'. Tim Robes ended up being our server, until he decided to buy us a round of drinks and disappear. That was very kind of him. I had oysters and lamb and bourbon. Allen had beef cheeks/tongue and sweet potato gnocchi, scallops and some oak-aged beer (i.e. high alcohol). Would go back. We talked about horror movies and moving and how "it's my birthday".

I still have dead roses in my bathroom from the anniversary. I like having dead flowers around. It's like living in a crypt. Or so I like to pretend. Dead, dry roses are the best.

Sneezing like a ma-chine over here. All god damn day. The allergy meds aren't working today. "This is my face," I just said to A., with my sad mouth-breathing self.

Sometimes your mom dies.

I don't like being a mouth breather.

Do you love me? Do you hate me?

Oh, then we went to Giant Eagle and tried to buy a cake in the self-checkout and of course we couldn't, and we were like, "we just want to buy this cake..." Nah, it wasn't *that* dramatic.

You're welcome.