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.

One for the Ladies

Je suis un monstre.  

Bien sûr.

Why didn't I realise?  Oh, please, I did realise.    

I'm posting to the wrong crowd.  Which is my own damn fault.  I am neither punk nor metal.  ("Save your breath, I never was one." Of either.)  Nor am I especially feminist.  *GASP*  I'm not terribly fond of women or what they've done to me over the years.  Fuck 'em.  Men are more relatable, at least on my end.  Not on theirs.  They only see me as a girl.  Fuck them as well. 

I just never bothered to make friends as I grew older.  Not really.  Not since my first best friend, who was a boy, started to like other boys more than me when we were seven.  (Fuck you, Garon Sizemore, for stealing my bff.) 

And not since every one of my girl friends turned out to be pathological liars.  

There was Rhonda Sanders, who claimed she could breast feed at age 8 and who, it turned out, was being raised by her grandparents masquerading as her parents while the person whom she thought was her sister was her actual mother.  

Then there was Julie something-or-other.  I don't remember exactly what happened there but it involved her not talking to me any more for some reason in the 3rd or 4th grade.  Whatever, she looked like a poodle.  

Then there was Sam Leaf.  OMG, I don't even want to get started on her and her multiple pairs of Z. Cavaricci's. Her and her jealous bff Pam.  Yes, Sam & Pam are the main reason I hate women.  Oops. I mean, don't trust women.  Sam also stopped talking to me but at the same time convinced the rest of the 8th grade girls to stop talking to me as well.  Overnight.  Because of a quiz in a magazine. Because of my answer.  That I gave her over the phone.  WHILE PAM WAS ON THE OTHER LINE.  WHICH SOMEHOW RESULTED IN ME BECOMING A SOCIAL PARIAH. 

A part I've played ever since.  

Brandi did a good job between about 15 and 19.  I mean, she tried, even though she was initially one of those 8th grade girls who made me an outcast.  Unfortunately, by that point, I was already too damaged to benefit from her friendship.  And I guess I never really trusted her or forgave her completely.

I remember some in-between-friends.  There was Sarah, who I met in French class in 9th grade.  She was at our school for AP Drama.  She was also a lesbian and she took me to Baltimore with her to see this movie, Go Fish, in 1994 (I guess).  I remember she used to call me and send me things when I was at Sheppard Pratt for a few months, and once, when I moved back home to my sister's, she came over and sat with me on my bedroom floor and held my hands while I cried.  She was really sweet.         

Niki was ok.  She didn't wash her hair enough and forever borrowed my Peter Gabriel record, "So," along with some Blondie record I bought at Goodwill or something.  It was at her house that I first became familiar with the "Internet" and "Vampire: The Masquerade."  I thought both were jokes.  It was 1994-95.

There was also Melissa, my first Sheppard Pratt roommate.  She had some eating disorder or something but we quickly became bffs.  Then staff caught on that we were too bff and decided we needed to be separated because we were "bad influences" on each other.  So instead I ended up with Sandra, a 12-year-old with serious delusions, followed by some mentally handicapped girl whom I threatened to kill because she was going through my drawers.  I had to spend a night in the "quiet room" for that.
   
I've been called a "bad influence" more than once in my lifetime.  It's not an easy label to accept.  It feels nice, in a "bad" kind of way.  Like, I'm so bad-ass that parents think I'm a "bad influence!"  But I didn't want to be a bad influence.  I wanted to be some one's best friend.  I think I was smarter than most of my friends' parents and it bothered them.  Maybe in a precocious way but more importantly in an intellectual way.  I guess as a teenager being intellectual = precocious.  Writing this has been infinitely sad for me.  Will you notice?  Probably not.  But maybe that's just me being precocious.