I have a story. I was going to try to remain somewhat cryptic about something that I’ve been rather cryptic about in the past. It seemed appropriate – at first, it was so private and wonderful that I didn’t want anything to intrude upon it. In the middle, I hoped things would turn around and stop being so painful and weird and I wasn’t comfortable sharing details, though you may have noticed the appearance of uncomfortable posts. And now, after the end, I’ve started to consider what I’ve learned, how the story played out in reality and not in my head, and decided I’d try to tell you.
I read blogs to get out of my own head. To appreciate someone’s problems, to understand her motivation, to feel pain over his misfortune. At a time in my life when I feel relatively disconnected from people I love most, there’s a connection here that I value. I can’t offer very much to you – a comment here or there, perhaps an email – because your problems remain your own. And I try to accept responsibility for my problems. (And, oh, I do have some. I know that.) But part of how I handle things of late is through writing them out. Letting the thoughts find their way into words. Releasing some of that energy and knowing that you’re not obligated to do anything with it.
I appreciate the comments, by the way. As for what I deserve or how valid my sadness may be? I’m not sure. I can’t figure myself out right now. So maybe if I can write this, step back and read it after I’m done, let it settle as an event that has reached completion, I’ll be better. For today was hard. I woke at 2AM and haven’t slept since. I walked for an hour through weather that threatened storms just after dawn, went to church, had a friend over. Her presence – even when I had my head in my hands, trying to muster some composure – helped. I ate a bit. I talked some. I tried to focus on her attempts at distraction. I came up with some mildly funny stories. Watched the lake and wished I'd brought my camera so I could remember how pretty it was as the sun set. And I appreciated her allowing the silence sometimes. For me to think and hurt and compose parts of this in my head.
As stories go, it’s tempting to start this one at the end. You all know it doesn’t end well and I’m struggling most with that part, but I think to gain some perspective – for myself more than any of you – I should start at the beginning.
I sent an email in February – just before Valentine’s Day, I think. I don’t know if I’ve confessed this or not, but I very much wanted to meet someone who read my blog. We would write, then meet, fall in love, and I’d feel safe being with him because he knew me. Had read this place where I put my secrets and embarrassments and stories I think are important. So in addition to figuring some things out for myself, I wanted to pick up a partner along the way. It sounds silly perhaps, but I was so very lonely. Away from my family and friends. Living in my beloved house, but isolated enough that I couldn’t hear signs of life through the walls. It was just me and Chienne. I’d go to a job that wasn’t moving fast enough or making me feel productive. I continued to gain weight and was avoiding looking in mirrors. I felt stuck in this awful cycle and was trying something different – a blog – to escape it.
I wrote that first email carefully. Chose words – even looked some up to make sure they were exactly what I wanted – and put them together so that I could make some contact with someone I decided I liked very much. He read my blog and seemed to really understand it. He was smart, charming, funny and kind. He was my favorite, and I picked him.
From that first night, I didn’t expect much. A flattered response, perhaps. Some expression of appreciation that I seemed to have such a crush on someone I’d never met. But there was more. I’m not sure how to articulate this part. I found so much of what he wrote compelling. It seemed to mirror so many of my thoughts and I was dazzled by this mutual understanding we seemed to display. And so there was email – quite a lot of it at first. I remembered the password to my blog Gmail account so I could check it at work, so very eager was I for more words. More interest from someone I considered so amazing.
I started taking walks in the morning. Needed to burn off some energy from this euphoria that I finally found someone who made me nearly giddy. But unlike the others, this one saw me. Knew me and wanted to know more. Smiled over me and recognized how wonderful I was. There was this honesty, we said. No games over how long to wait before responding. We liked each other. It was OK to express those feelings.
I brushed aside his gentle warning not to get too serious. There are, after all, people online who might hurt me. It’s best to be careful. I didn’t want to be cautious or reserved though. I wanted to believe that I was going to receive what I had feared I’d never find. Someone who loved me. A solid relationship which we’d build slowly then live with forever. Grand dreams, I know, but I somehow bought into them. Not because he promised them to me – not at all – but because I wanted them so much. Was so terribly open and vulnerable and eager because I really thought he was right for me. And the hope – the happiness and relief – were amazing.
There were – quite quickly – sharing of personal details (my name, current location and job, some rough family sketches) then pictures. The former was easy – I’m quite proud of where I am, what I’ve accomplished, the people who share my last name. The latter was tremendously difficult. Sending the picture, living with the miserable certainty that he wouldn’t find me attractive, would regret our mild flirtation so far, would refuse to continue something I so badly wanted – it brought me to tears that shocked and embarrassed me on a rainy bus ride to my car. He would go away, and I would miss him, and it would be hard. So I composed an email that offered him an easy out – it was fine not to find someone attractive. It’s either there or it isn’t, and if it isn’t, the kind thing to do is to opt out immediately.
He didn’t. I fluttered under his gentle scolding that I was being silly. I was cute. He was attracted, a little, because pictures didn’t convey the entirety of a person. He still wanted to know me. No more worries about not being good enough – I, quite simply, was. Then, easing my discomfort over having been so out of control emotionally, he shared a painful story of his own. I wanted badly to soothe him, to offer what comfort I could, so I tried. I didn’t want him to feel ill or angry or betrayed or foolish or anything bad. I thought so very highly of him, after all, that anything good I could offer him, I’d do so willingly. Completely.
Even then, as I warned myself sternly not to fall too hard – we were far away from each other, it didn’t really make sense that he’d like me and I’d like him when I’d never found something so mutual and perfect – I knew I wasn’t able to control it. I had decided on him, and if he was going to allow it, I’d keep him for my very own.
I got through that with very little pain, so I think that’s enough for tonight. I think it’s coming together in my mind – my role, his responses, what we had versus what I wanted to believe we had. In the event that this is unfair or inappropriate, well, I’ll apologize right up front. It is not, and was never, my intention to hurt anyone. And if I’m the one who’s suffering the most right now, that’s likely appropriate. But blogs – or at least this one – are for stories. For anyone interested to peek in my life and see what I did, how I felt, and how it ended. It helps me to write it, honestly, and I’m being selfish right now. I'm using every mechanism I can think of to cope. To understand. And to stop being so pathetically miserable. It's going to take a few days - I'm told you can't rush these things. So I'll work and clean and try to get some sleep. And I'll tell the rest of this story, I think.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Breaking up is, in fact, hard to do.
I passed out in grad school. Was standing in the middle of a crowded room near the middle of my first year, pressed against my labmates, all of us watching a demonstration on a small computer screen. I didn’t feel well when I arrived – was overtired, headachy, hungry. So, standing there, I noticed this roaring in my ears.
Strange, I thought, shaking my head a bit and watching the room tilt crazily around me. As blackness started to fill my vision from the outside in, I remember thinking – shocked – I think I’m going to pass out!
Fearful of being embarrassed, I pushed my way out of the room, found myself in the doorway, and stared at the professor, a man I adored though I was only halfway through his class. He was talking to the TA, who happened to be my crush, and I looked at said crush, confused. His face went worried instantly and he reached for me. I shook my head, said his name, and passed out.
Momentarily, I regained consciousness as I was being carried down the hall between the two men – professor and TA.
“Sit down. Head between your knees.” Professor said.
“No. I’ll throw up. I’m OK.” I said, thinking already about how interesting that experience was. The roaring in my ears, the dizziness, the loss of vision until I just checked out for a minute. Fascinating. Unpleasant, certainly, but on another level, pretty darn cool.
I sat in the chair for several minutes while Professor demanded TA get “all those big guys” out of the room.
“They’re taking up all the oxygen. Not enough left to keep the rest of you conscious, apparently.” He said, patting my hand before leaving to get me a glass of water. I told him I didn’t want it, but he insisted, wanting to feel useful.
He returned with a sopping paper towel, holding it toward me. I looked at him, wondering if I was still unconscious and having the strangest dream, then back to the paper towel as it dripped a puddle on the white tiled floor.
“I couldn’t find a cup.” He said, then handed me the paper towel as my crush raised his eyebrows, smiled, then went to throw it away for me.
I thought of it today not because it’s my favorite story starring that particular professor – a man who is brilliant at accomplishing his goals with whatever materials he can find (I was getting the water – cup or no) – but because I’m going through a rather miserable day today and though I wish desperately I was done with it, I find it interesting on an abstract level.
A relationship that I was in ended today. It should have done so months ago, and I’ve been making steps in this direction for some time, but to have it officially over – on a rather sour note, actually – is absolutely devastating. The only thing I can compare it to in my experience is when someone dies. That miserable helpless feeling. Thinking of all the songs, movies, books that will remind you of that person and how painful it will be when those memories are triggered. The constant pain of knowing something really sad happened. Wanting to fix it – do something to make everything all better – but knowing there’s nothing left to do. No more contact. No more changes. We're done.
What I find interesting is the severity of my reaction. This shouldn’t have been a big deal – in these difficult to define, online, never having even met things, it seems like I’d be smart and mature enough to just let go. Handle myself with a bit of dignity.
[Deleted a couple paragraphs that were decidedly undignified and shared too much information.]
The point is that I’m sick. Nauseated. Food seems revolting, and coming up on 30 hours since I’ve had anything, I’m a bit surprised I can’t get hungry. Despite Tylenol PM and zero coffee, I have been twitchy with energy all day. Cleaned my bathrooms for hours. Took Chienne on an incredibly brisk walk around the neighborhood in the heat of mid-morning. Came home sweating and trembling, but returned to the bathroom that wasn’t yet spotless. Tried to nap, but much like last night, I found myself popping up because I couldn’t stand myself enough to be still.
I got shrill and furious, though I’ve since calmed down. I’ve cried multiple times, and my head throbs incessantly. I don’t know what to do with myself. Can’t work, don’t care about blogs, flip through channels constantly because nothing can hold my interest, threw a romance novel down in disgust because that’s not likely to happen for me. I loved him, I realized. And I lost him, though it was unquestionably for the best. We weren’t right together. If we’d been together, we both would have been unhappy.
But, well, wow. This hurts.
I’ve had relationships before. One of them pretty serious. But none that have worked their way so firmly into my heart, mind and fantasies that the loss of them cripples me. And so I always viewed people in the midst of break-ups as a bit pathetic. I would certainly handle it better, I thought. He clearly wasn’t right for her. Didn’t love her. She’s better off without him and seems to realize it. So what in the world is with all the dramatic gestures? She’s tremendously silly.
Yet so am I. I feel like I’m watching myself, wanting to whisper, “Um, what’s the deal? Are you OK? This is fine – pull yourself together a bit. I’m embarrassed for you.” And I’m fascinated. I can’t come up with enough words to indicate how awful this is, and I’m eager to move past it and be happy again. But how interesting are the physical symptoms. The restless thoughts, the lack of appetite, insomnia, shaking from pain, avoiding phone calls only to cry when I finally answer them. It turns out that this process does really suck. I feel fortunate to have avoided it thus far, but can’t imagine going through it again.
Unnamed Friend (who has a blog – I’m not making her up) is coming tomorrow to keep me company. I talked to my parents and Dad quickly handed the phone back to Mom when I lost it and started to cry. When she asked what happened, I told her. And when she said, “He’s not for you.” I was comforted.
“You’re right.” I said. “The alternative to this is continuing to hold on to the wrong person. This is good...
“But it hurts, Mom.”
So she soothed and now she’ll worry, but I’ll be OK. I’m trying to work my way through it, endure the pain so I can feel better later, know more, prepare for a relationship that might never happen. But I finally get it – why people suffer so greatly at times when they lose someone they thought was wonderful. Even the knowledge that it was wrong, there has to be someone better, there are all kinds of blessings in my life doesn’t make much difference. Prayer helps, but the pain is still waiting. Friends and family are invaluable, but I’m sitting here alone for now.
Now I understand. The horrible misery. I feel badly for judging people rather harshly in their own moments of pain – I just didn’t comprehend the magnitude of it. How very out of control the process is.
My question is this: How do you make yourself try again when failing is so absolutely awful? Perhaps I’ll figure it out. Maybe I won’t. But for now, I’m sick. Exhausted but can’t sleep. Sad with no way to get out of it. I’m in a bad place, folks. I really hope it breaks soon because interesting or not, it’s getting old already.
Strange, I thought, shaking my head a bit and watching the room tilt crazily around me. As blackness started to fill my vision from the outside in, I remember thinking – shocked – I think I’m going to pass out!
Fearful of being embarrassed, I pushed my way out of the room, found myself in the doorway, and stared at the professor, a man I adored though I was only halfway through his class. He was talking to the TA, who happened to be my crush, and I looked at said crush, confused. His face went worried instantly and he reached for me. I shook my head, said his name, and passed out.
Momentarily, I regained consciousness as I was being carried down the hall between the two men – professor and TA.
“Sit down. Head between your knees.” Professor said.
“No. I’ll throw up. I’m OK.” I said, thinking already about how interesting that experience was. The roaring in my ears, the dizziness, the loss of vision until I just checked out for a minute. Fascinating. Unpleasant, certainly, but on another level, pretty darn cool.
I sat in the chair for several minutes while Professor demanded TA get “all those big guys” out of the room.
“They’re taking up all the oxygen. Not enough left to keep the rest of you conscious, apparently.” He said, patting my hand before leaving to get me a glass of water. I told him I didn’t want it, but he insisted, wanting to feel useful.
He returned with a sopping paper towel, holding it toward me. I looked at him, wondering if I was still unconscious and having the strangest dream, then back to the paper towel as it dripped a puddle on the white tiled floor.
“I couldn’t find a cup.” He said, then handed me the paper towel as my crush raised his eyebrows, smiled, then went to throw it away for me.
I thought of it today not because it’s my favorite story starring that particular professor – a man who is brilliant at accomplishing his goals with whatever materials he can find (I was getting the water – cup or no) – but because I’m going through a rather miserable day today and though I wish desperately I was done with it, I find it interesting on an abstract level.
A relationship that I was in ended today. It should have done so months ago, and I’ve been making steps in this direction for some time, but to have it officially over – on a rather sour note, actually – is absolutely devastating. The only thing I can compare it to in my experience is when someone dies. That miserable helpless feeling. Thinking of all the songs, movies, books that will remind you of that person and how painful it will be when those memories are triggered. The constant pain of knowing something really sad happened. Wanting to fix it – do something to make everything all better – but knowing there’s nothing left to do. No more contact. No more changes. We're done.
What I find interesting is the severity of my reaction. This shouldn’t have been a big deal – in these difficult to define, online, never having even met things, it seems like I’d be smart and mature enough to just let go. Handle myself with a bit of dignity.
[Deleted a couple paragraphs that were decidedly undignified and shared too much information.]
The point is that I’m sick. Nauseated. Food seems revolting, and coming up on 30 hours since I’ve had anything, I’m a bit surprised I can’t get hungry. Despite Tylenol PM and zero coffee, I have been twitchy with energy all day. Cleaned my bathrooms for hours. Took Chienne on an incredibly brisk walk around the neighborhood in the heat of mid-morning. Came home sweating and trembling, but returned to the bathroom that wasn’t yet spotless. Tried to nap, but much like last night, I found myself popping up because I couldn’t stand myself enough to be still.
I got shrill and furious, though I’ve since calmed down. I’ve cried multiple times, and my head throbs incessantly. I don’t know what to do with myself. Can’t work, don’t care about blogs, flip through channels constantly because nothing can hold my interest, threw a romance novel down in disgust because that’s not likely to happen for me. I loved him, I realized. And I lost him, though it was unquestionably for the best. We weren’t right together. If we’d been together, we both would have been unhappy.
But, well, wow. This hurts.
I’ve had relationships before. One of them pretty serious. But none that have worked their way so firmly into my heart, mind and fantasies that the loss of them cripples me. And so I always viewed people in the midst of break-ups as a bit pathetic. I would certainly handle it better, I thought. He clearly wasn’t right for her. Didn’t love her. She’s better off without him and seems to realize it. So what in the world is with all the dramatic gestures? She’s tremendously silly.
Yet so am I. I feel like I’m watching myself, wanting to whisper, “Um, what’s the deal? Are you OK? This is fine – pull yourself together a bit. I’m embarrassed for you.” And I’m fascinated. I can’t come up with enough words to indicate how awful this is, and I’m eager to move past it and be happy again. But how interesting are the physical symptoms. The restless thoughts, the lack of appetite, insomnia, shaking from pain, avoiding phone calls only to cry when I finally answer them. It turns out that this process does really suck. I feel fortunate to have avoided it thus far, but can’t imagine going through it again.
Unnamed Friend (who has a blog – I’m not making her up) is coming tomorrow to keep me company. I talked to my parents and Dad quickly handed the phone back to Mom when I lost it and started to cry. When she asked what happened, I told her. And when she said, “He’s not for you.” I was comforted.
“You’re right.” I said. “The alternative to this is continuing to hold on to the wrong person. This is good...
“But it hurts, Mom.”
So she soothed and now she’ll worry, but I’ll be OK. I’m trying to work my way through it, endure the pain so I can feel better later, know more, prepare for a relationship that might never happen. But I finally get it – why people suffer so greatly at times when they lose someone they thought was wonderful. Even the knowledge that it was wrong, there has to be someone better, there are all kinds of blessings in my life doesn’t make much difference. Prayer helps, but the pain is still waiting. Friends and family are invaluable, but I’m sitting here alone for now.
Now I understand. The horrible misery. I feel badly for judging people rather harshly in their own moments of pain – I just didn’t comprehend the magnitude of it. How very out of control the process is.
My question is this: How do you make yourself try again when failing is so absolutely awful? Perhaps I’ll figure it out. Maybe I won’t. But for now, I’m sick. Exhausted but can’t sleep. Sad with no way to get out of it. I’m in a bad place, folks. I really hope it breaks soon because interesting or not, it’s getting old already.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Luke 18: 18-27
I’m having a rough evening. I won’t go into detail – it might be unfair, and I don’t like to be unfair. But when something causes an abrupt shift into confusion, shame and hurt (and anger. But mostly misery) where there used to be love and affection, it’s easier for me to panic than it is to cope.
I wasn’t going to write about it. After all, when someone hurts you – malicious intent or no – it’s better to remain stoic, isn't it? It makes me look stronger, more capable, less idiotic, to stay silent and pretend I’m not devastated by this turn of events. So, I decided to cope. Couldn’t resist a single immature gesture, and can’t say I regret it – when wounded, I think we strike out. Seems fair.
After doing that, I decided to get drunk. Now, I get tipsy easily – am a silly, happy, giggly person when I have a single glass of wine. But I’ve never been drunk – the point where you’re stumbling, unable to form clear thoughts, throwing up. That’s undignified, I think. Actually, I don’t know that it is. It’s scary, is the truth of the matter. Being out of control, uninhibited, that in touch with my baser instincts – it makes me shy away out of fear. But I’m home alone with no plans to go out tonight, so drinking one of my nice Rieslings held some appeal.
I selected one from the wine rack I got for my 21st birthday, easily found my corkscrew in the utensil draw under the pretty china I placed on shelves. It’s a wheat pattern and belonged to my Grandma. It’s likely my favorite place in the house – looking at that wall. Knowing Grandma selected those dishes, Mom carefully stored them, and now I have them in my home. So I opened my wine, wondering when it had become so simple to do when at one time it required all four roommates to destroy the cork and force the alcohol out. I put ice in a glass – I drink wine cold and this was room temperature – filled it to the top, almost spilling over the cobalt rim of my glass, and gulped.
Then I did dishes for that soothes me. I normally do them in the morning – productive and lazy simultaneously – while I stare out the kitchen window. While it was easily my least favorite childhood chore, it now reminds me of home. Hands in hot, sudsy water. Scrubbing at dishes then rinsing them and placing them strategically in the drying rack. The clinking sounds, running water, standing on the soft mat that Mom bought me. I like it. But I kept taking breaks to gulp my wine – the ice now melted – and finished the glass before returning to the living room.
I wrote email to Unnamed Friend. Confessed the entire situation, which, in hindsight, was marked by my stupidity. Shared my plan for getting drunk, sick with misery the entire time. She comforted in her reply – sometimes we’re stupid, she said. Logic clicks off and it doesn’t make me a bad person. Drink if I wanted, but stop when it ceases to be enjoyable. Cry because if often helps. And I wrote back telling her I couldn’t cry – was simply too overwhelmed by this awful feeling – and had stopped drinking after a glass a half because I was starting to feel nauseated.
I took Tylenol PM – blessed sleep would certainly help. Putting time between me and the present moment seemed ideal. But the pills take about an hour to work for me. So I watched television. Heard Sprout meow through his door so I went to check on him. Offered more food, cleaned his litter, petted him for quite some time. He wanted out when I opened the door, but hissed when Chienne was revealed.
“I just can’t.” I told him sadly. Defeated. “I’m not up for it. Tomorrow. We’ll try again tomorrow. I’m sorry.”
I settled myself on the couch with Chienne, then hopped up to shower. Talked to myself while trying to relax, but ended up with wet hair and the same sick feeling afterward. Came back to the couch to watch Friends. I like Friends – it got me through grad school in particularly rough times. Gentle humor. Episodes seen many times. When it ended, I switched over to Who’s Line. Mom thinks it’s hysterical, and though I laugh more at her than the show, it’s a nice memory of time at home. So I watched for 10 minutes, decided I might be sleepy, so headed to bed.
As I stared at the ceiling, rubbing my fingers over the silky sheets, I kept looping through this bad decision I’d made. All the stupid things I’d said, the timeline, the new things I’d learned. And I felt suffocated by the pain.
“I think I’m going to throw up.” I told Chienne. And I despise vomiting. I refuse to do it unless the situation is dire. The thought that I would do it now – for this – enraged me. But I slipped quickly into self-pity again.
So I got up, passed the bathroom, and headed to the loveseat. I’ve spent countless hours here since moving, after all. I haven’t felt this badly since grad school, I decided. In the days when my defense seemed hopeless. The battle was too hard to fight. I wasn't going to win. No more calls to be made or emails to send to try to fix my situation. I just had to accept and deal with the consequences. Put my head down and find some happiness elsewhere.
So I tipped my head back as I sat here tonight, laptop still plugged in on the side table, unopened. Closed my eyes. And begged.
“Please.” I said to God, for while we’re spending time together in the mornings, that mental click that indicates to me that we’re doing well together hasn’t yet occurred. “Please, please, please, please, please. Help me.”
And the tears which seemed so far away earlier started. “I need You. I can’t do this. I don’t know how. I’m hopeless and scared and I don’t know what to do. Please. Let me have peace. Make this sickness stop. I don’t deserve it. I’m sorry. I know. But please.”
And I wept as the nausea eased, the sadness stepped back from its controlling position in my heart, and the peace descended. It surrounds me now – allowing the grief to settle gently, but blanketing the anger and confusion and humiliation. They’re distant in some way I recognize yet can't quite explain. I’m sad, but I think it’s more that I strayed from God. Got so caught up in my own plans and goals that I ran to them even while it was taking me away from Him. I knew it. And did it anyway. Willfull disobedience. Even with the knowledge that the rules He’s sent have more to do with protecting than controlling me. I scoffed at them and broke some. Because I wanted to do so.
And yet, I sat where I currently sit and asked. Just for a moment. And He came. I feel Him.
I opened the laptop and instead of a desperate desire to check email, or hope for new blog entries for distraction, I opened Our Daily Bread. Clicked right to today’s scripture reading. It’s from Luke, and I’m going to type it out because I want to remember.
I have become very sad – in the distant and recent past – because following God means giving up certain things I like. Secular interests, ways of thinking, the derision and superiority with which I sometimes view other people. I like those as much as I like my romance novel collection. They’re often far more appealing than a healthy relationship with God. Pure trust that He’ll guide me and live in me and I’ll find true peace and happiness? Nah - I'd rather try it myself.
Will this evening change my life? The arrival of peace that I view as miraculous? Past experience indicates it won’t. I love God now – profoundly appreciate that I’m no longer sick, don’t ache with misery. I'm peaceful and filled with comfort and love. In no need of encouraging comments or nice emails - God fixed it already. But tomorrow the world will beckon, and I’ll likely answer. Weak and undeserving. If I were God, I’d ignore me. Shake my head and turn away – allowing the suffering because it’s exactly where my choices lead. It’s the fair result.
But He didn’t. He came. He loved. He eased. Why? I’m not sure, actually. He’s God and I don’t get it on any profound level. I couldn’t do it in His position. But, well, “What is impossible with men is possible with God.”
I wanted to note my gratitude in the moment. Make sure I articulated it through the haze of Tylenol PM, though I do feel very awake right now. It’s important - what happened tonight. And I wanted to remember – not the pain, though I did see it coming and was, admittedly, warned in some gentle and obvious ways that straying from God doesn’t lead to lasting happiness and satisfaction. For me, for some blessed reason I don’t understand, the misery I bring about in my own life eventually loops back to where I should have been all along.
Humbled before God, asking for help and peace and guidance. Then receiving all those things.
I wasn’t going to write about it. After all, when someone hurts you – malicious intent or no – it’s better to remain stoic, isn't it? It makes me look stronger, more capable, less idiotic, to stay silent and pretend I’m not devastated by this turn of events. So, I decided to cope. Couldn’t resist a single immature gesture, and can’t say I regret it – when wounded, I think we strike out. Seems fair.
After doing that, I decided to get drunk. Now, I get tipsy easily – am a silly, happy, giggly person when I have a single glass of wine. But I’ve never been drunk – the point where you’re stumbling, unable to form clear thoughts, throwing up. That’s undignified, I think. Actually, I don’t know that it is. It’s scary, is the truth of the matter. Being out of control, uninhibited, that in touch with my baser instincts – it makes me shy away out of fear. But I’m home alone with no plans to go out tonight, so drinking one of my nice Rieslings held some appeal.
I selected one from the wine rack I got for my 21st birthday, easily found my corkscrew in the utensil draw under the pretty china I placed on shelves. It’s a wheat pattern and belonged to my Grandma. It’s likely my favorite place in the house – looking at that wall. Knowing Grandma selected those dishes, Mom carefully stored them, and now I have them in my home. So I opened my wine, wondering when it had become so simple to do when at one time it required all four roommates to destroy the cork and force the alcohol out. I put ice in a glass – I drink wine cold and this was room temperature – filled it to the top, almost spilling over the cobalt rim of my glass, and gulped.
Then I did dishes for that soothes me. I normally do them in the morning – productive and lazy simultaneously – while I stare out the kitchen window. While it was easily my least favorite childhood chore, it now reminds me of home. Hands in hot, sudsy water. Scrubbing at dishes then rinsing them and placing them strategically in the drying rack. The clinking sounds, running water, standing on the soft mat that Mom bought me. I like it. But I kept taking breaks to gulp my wine – the ice now melted – and finished the glass before returning to the living room.
I wrote email to Unnamed Friend. Confessed the entire situation, which, in hindsight, was marked by my stupidity. Shared my plan for getting drunk, sick with misery the entire time. She comforted in her reply – sometimes we’re stupid, she said. Logic clicks off and it doesn’t make me a bad person. Drink if I wanted, but stop when it ceases to be enjoyable. Cry because if often helps. And I wrote back telling her I couldn’t cry – was simply too overwhelmed by this awful feeling – and had stopped drinking after a glass a half because I was starting to feel nauseated.
I took Tylenol PM – blessed sleep would certainly help. Putting time between me and the present moment seemed ideal. But the pills take about an hour to work for me. So I watched television. Heard Sprout meow through his door so I went to check on him. Offered more food, cleaned his litter, petted him for quite some time. He wanted out when I opened the door, but hissed when Chienne was revealed.
“I just can’t.” I told him sadly. Defeated. “I’m not up for it. Tomorrow. We’ll try again tomorrow. I’m sorry.”
I settled myself on the couch with Chienne, then hopped up to shower. Talked to myself while trying to relax, but ended up with wet hair and the same sick feeling afterward. Came back to the couch to watch Friends. I like Friends – it got me through grad school in particularly rough times. Gentle humor. Episodes seen many times. When it ended, I switched over to Who’s Line. Mom thinks it’s hysterical, and though I laugh more at her than the show, it’s a nice memory of time at home. So I watched for 10 minutes, decided I might be sleepy, so headed to bed.
As I stared at the ceiling, rubbing my fingers over the silky sheets, I kept looping through this bad decision I’d made. All the stupid things I’d said, the timeline, the new things I’d learned. And I felt suffocated by the pain.
“I think I’m going to throw up.” I told Chienne. And I despise vomiting. I refuse to do it unless the situation is dire. The thought that I would do it now – for this – enraged me. But I slipped quickly into self-pity again.
So I got up, passed the bathroom, and headed to the loveseat. I’ve spent countless hours here since moving, after all. I haven’t felt this badly since grad school, I decided. In the days when my defense seemed hopeless. The battle was too hard to fight. I wasn't going to win. No more calls to be made or emails to send to try to fix my situation. I just had to accept and deal with the consequences. Put my head down and find some happiness elsewhere.
So I tipped my head back as I sat here tonight, laptop still plugged in on the side table, unopened. Closed my eyes. And begged.
“Please.” I said to God, for while we’re spending time together in the mornings, that mental click that indicates to me that we’re doing well together hasn’t yet occurred. “Please, please, please, please, please. Help me.”
And the tears which seemed so far away earlier started. “I need You. I can’t do this. I don’t know how. I’m hopeless and scared and I don’t know what to do. Please. Let me have peace. Make this sickness stop. I don’t deserve it. I’m sorry. I know. But please.”
And I wept as the nausea eased, the sadness stepped back from its controlling position in my heart, and the peace descended. It surrounds me now – allowing the grief to settle gently, but blanketing the anger and confusion and humiliation. They’re distant in some way I recognize yet can't quite explain. I’m sad, but I think it’s more that I strayed from God. Got so caught up in my own plans and goals that I ran to them even while it was taking me away from Him. I knew it. And did it anyway. Willfull disobedience. Even with the knowledge that the rules He’s sent have more to do with protecting than controlling me. I scoffed at them and broke some. Because I wanted to do so.
And yet, I sat where I currently sit and asked. Just for a moment. And He came. I feel Him.
I opened the laptop and instead of a desperate desire to check email, or hope for new blog entries for distraction, I opened Our Daily Bread. Clicked right to today’s scripture reading. It’s from Luke, and I’m going to type it out because I want to remember.
A certain ruler asked him, “Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
“Why do you call me good?” Jesus answered. “No one is good – except God alone. You know the commandments: ‘Do not commit adultery, do not murder, do not give false testimony, honor your father and mother.’”
“All these I have kept since I was a boy.” he said.
“When Jesus heard this, he said to him, “You still lack one thing. Sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”
When he heard this, he became very sad, because he was a man of great wealth. Jesus looked at him and said, “How hard it is for the rich to enter the kingdom of God! Indeed, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.”
Those who heard this asked, “Who then can be saved?”
Jesus replied, “What is impossible with men is possible with God.”
I have become very sad – in the distant and recent past – because following God means giving up certain things I like. Secular interests, ways of thinking, the derision and superiority with which I sometimes view other people. I like those as much as I like my romance novel collection. They’re often far more appealing than a healthy relationship with God. Pure trust that He’ll guide me and live in me and I’ll find true peace and happiness? Nah - I'd rather try it myself.
Will this evening change my life? The arrival of peace that I view as miraculous? Past experience indicates it won’t. I love God now – profoundly appreciate that I’m no longer sick, don’t ache with misery. I'm peaceful and filled with comfort and love. In no need of encouraging comments or nice emails - God fixed it already. But tomorrow the world will beckon, and I’ll likely answer. Weak and undeserving. If I were God, I’d ignore me. Shake my head and turn away – allowing the suffering because it’s exactly where my choices lead. It’s the fair result.
But He didn’t. He came. He loved. He eased. Why? I’m not sure, actually. He’s God and I don’t get it on any profound level. I couldn’t do it in His position. But, well, “What is impossible with men is possible with God.”
I wanted to note my gratitude in the moment. Make sure I articulated it through the haze of Tylenol PM, though I do feel very awake right now. It’s important - what happened tonight. And I wanted to remember – not the pain, though I did see it coming and was, admittedly, warned in some gentle and obvious ways that straying from God doesn’t lead to lasting happiness and satisfaction. For me, for some blessed reason I don’t understand, the misery I bring about in my own life eventually loops back to where I should have been all along.
Humbled before God, asking for help and peace and guidance. Then receiving all those things.
The Sprout Report
Picture, if you will, me sitting on my guest bathroom floor. I’m tucked on one of my blue rugs, cat on my left – under the toilet, peering out suspiciously – dog on my right, pushing forward from the hallway to get that cat. I’m soothing Chienne – speaking softly and gently, scratching her favorite spot and watching her wag her tail.
Sprout returned her stare – neither paid me a bit of attention. So I reached a hand toward the pretty cat and he came closer to let me pet him. My soothing attention was working – I still felt badly for shouting at them the last time when Sprout darted away, Chienne gave chase and everything ended with a hiss and yelp. Irritating, that. Poorly handled. I was doing better this time, I decided with no small amount of pride.
Sprout allowed Chienne to touch his nose with hers, only drawing back with displeasure when she dared lick him. But we tried – over and over – I was trying to located my latent patient nature. Soothing and calm, I told myself. Gentle and easy. My legs are falling asleep, but that’s OK. They’re getting used to each other. Lovely.
It all ended - about 10 minutes later - with noises of started surprise. Chienne lunged. Sprout screeched and swatted her. She yelped and I screamed simultaneously. At which point, I shoved her from the bathroom, wrapped Sprout in a towel and placed him back in his room. Closed the door. And sighed.
“I saw your notice.” Said a man’s voice in a deep drawl the night before when I answered the phone. “That you found a cat?”
“Oh. Yes, I did.” I replied, trying to quickly determine how I felt about losing Sprout. He still doesn’t feel like mine, actually. And introducing him to Chienne is obviously going less than swimmingly. “Are you missing a cat?”
“My good friend is.”
And we both waited for a moment – me thinking about whether I would offer all my cat accessories before returning the little guy, he probably waiting for me to say something.
“What color is your missing cat?” I asked, reading to interrogate him on the color of flea collar as well.
“Black and white striped.” He answered, and I frowned. I’ve never seen a black and white striped cat. Like a zebra? Aren’t they usually black or white spots on the contrasting color of fur?
“Well, mine is gray with black stripes. Very small.”
“Oh.” He said, sounding a bit disappointed, but certainly not broken hearted.
“Was yours a male or female?” I asked, not wanting to steal someone’s cat if her friend couldn’t distinguish white from gray.
“Female.” He said, and I sighed.
“Mine is a male.” I told him. “I hope you find the missing cat though. Thanks for calling.”
And we said good-bye and I scratched Chienne’s head as she settled her giant body in my lap. “I think we have a cat, sweetheart.”
In fact, there is a boy in my guest room. He just happens to be 5.1 pounds of feline. While Chienne and I continue to look at each post we pass on our walks, hoping to see a sign seeking the return of a small striped cat with a big striped collar, I’ve received no valid calls to claim him.
I woke up yesterday morning, walked the dog, then returned home to shower and dress so Sprout could visit the vet. I recently took Chienne to the small office in my little town and was surprised by how delightful they were. Quick, matter of fact, and excessively kind to my happy little dog. The sore spot on her side is healing nicely and the shot has helped tremendously with her allergies. God bless them.
After frowning over my lack of anything resembling a carrier – Chienne is a good little traveler and sits proudly in the front or sleeps in the back – I wrapped Sprout in his favorite flowered blanket and set him in the car. The garage door startled him and he darted behind the passenger seat where he meowed demandingly until we arrived at the vet.
I scooped him up, wrapped him snugly in the blanket so he couldn’t escape and went in the office. I told the receptionist my name and confirmed our 8:30 appointment time.
“For my cat. Well, not my cat. This cat. I found him. In the flower bed.” And I rubbed the side of my index finger across his tiny head. He must have an itty bitty brain, I mused. Then decided he was smart enough to select the house of a sucker. Choose the flower bed that was well tended, with a profusion of what could be weeds with pretty flowers. Meowed at the person who would respond with sympathy and worry, taking him in until his family could be found.
“Smart Sprout.” I praised, then sat on the wooden bench while the receptionist checked us in.
“Can I weigh you?” She asked him moments later, coming over and peering into his little face as I cradled his body wrapped in pastel blanket.
“It’s very nice.” I said. And shrugged when she asked if it was male or female. She took him, told me he was a boy (it is an undignified and intrusive process, poor little guy. I politely looked away.), then settled him on the same scale where Chienne had perched the week before. He was about 10% of the dog’s weight, and looked relieved to be held again. We entered an exam room, and I left his blanket bunched around his feet while I petted him. I don’t think he’s a lap cat. He wants my attention, but would rather be firmly on his pretty black paws while receiving it. So he stayed on his blanket, purring and looking around.
The tech entered, asked a couple questions and was busy writing things down.
“So,” I summarized, “just do whatever you need to do to make sure he’s OK. I’m looking for his family, so I might not have him for very long.
“What?” I asked, when her pen stilled and she gave me a look. “You don’t think I’ll find his family?”
She was saved from having to answer when the vet came in. He picked Sprout up and said they’d do tests for AIDS and leukemia. Then the vet and cat exited, leaving me with the tech.
“What if he’s positive?” I asked, trying not to care too much.
“The doctor will talk to you.” She said. “And you can decide what to do.”
I frowned, deciding to check my voice mail as I sat alone in the room after she left too, nodding in response to the random questions people popped in to ask. They were giving him Revolution for fleas, mites and worms, OK? Sure.
Would I like to vaccinate for rabies? After making sure it wouldn’t hurt him if he’d already had the appropriate shots (because who wouldn’t vaccinate for rabies?), I nodded. And upper respiratory? If he needs it, that’s fine.
They were cleaning his ears. I offered my thanks. His age was somewhere between 4 and 5 months. He still had his baby teeth. Lovely.
Hadn’t been fixed. Could I schedule that today? The tech had returned with little Sprout at this point, and he took a moment before purring in response to my petting his head.
“Sure.” She said as the doctor was busy writing notes in the back. I could see him through the open door.
“I might have to cancel.” I told her. “If his family finds him.” Frowning over twin expressions of amusement, I asked if I could remove the flea collar.
“The only way a flea collar is effective is if you can get it tight enough to actually crush a flea.” The vet noted, returning to his notes. “You can take it off if you want.”
“Did you put it on?” The tech asked, probably wondering if I was offended. I shook my head.
“His family gave it to him. I’m sure they’re looking for him. Because he does have a family.”
She nodded kindly and I heard the doctor stifle a laugh. I turned to him with raised eyebrows and smiled after he said, “Of course he has a family.” He stepped inside and scratched under Sprout’s chin. “I’m looking at her.” And with a wink at me, he left the room again.
“I think you’re my cat now.” I told Sprout. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.” So I left with samples of cat food, brochures, a vaccination record. They bundled him up in a cardboard carrier. I promptly opened it in response to his cries once we were in the car.
He seems good. He flattens his ears against his head and displays his claws when I clean his ears. They are disgusting with the ickiness, but Unnamed Friend says the mites will stay away if I keep them clean. He immediately rises to greet me when I enter his room. I spill litter on the floor when cleaning because he wants so much attention. The sore behind his ear was due to scratching at the mites. It’s healing nicely. He has a bit of white on his chin, but nowhere else. He only meows when demanding something – in the car, out in the hallway, when I leave his room with dirty litter before petting him an appropriate amount. His ears have black tips. His eyes are quite pretty. We’re getting to know each other.
He likes me, I think. About the dog? That remains to be seen.
Sprout returned her stare – neither paid me a bit of attention. So I reached a hand toward the pretty cat and he came closer to let me pet him. My soothing attention was working – I still felt badly for shouting at them the last time when Sprout darted away, Chienne gave chase and everything ended with a hiss and yelp. Irritating, that. Poorly handled. I was doing better this time, I decided with no small amount of pride.
Sprout allowed Chienne to touch his nose with hers, only drawing back with displeasure when she dared lick him. But we tried – over and over – I was trying to located my latent patient nature. Soothing and calm, I told myself. Gentle and easy. My legs are falling asleep, but that’s OK. They’re getting used to each other. Lovely.
It all ended - about 10 minutes later - with noises of started surprise. Chienne lunged. Sprout screeched and swatted her. She yelped and I screamed simultaneously. At which point, I shoved her from the bathroom, wrapped Sprout in a towel and placed him back in his room. Closed the door. And sighed.
“I saw your notice.” Said a man’s voice in a deep drawl the night before when I answered the phone. “That you found a cat?”
“Oh. Yes, I did.” I replied, trying to quickly determine how I felt about losing Sprout. He still doesn’t feel like mine, actually. And introducing him to Chienne is obviously going less than swimmingly. “Are you missing a cat?”
“My good friend is.”
And we both waited for a moment – me thinking about whether I would offer all my cat accessories before returning the little guy, he probably waiting for me to say something.
“What color is your missing cat?” I asked, reading to interrogate him on the color of flea collar as well.
“Black and white striped.” He answered, and I frowned. I’ve never seen a black and white striped cat. Like a zebra? Aren’t they usually black or white spots on the contrasting color of fur?
“Well, mine is gray with black stripes. Very small.”
“Oh.” He said, sounding a bit disappointed, but certainly not broken hearted.
“Was yours a male or female?” I asked, not wanting to steal someone’s cat if her friend couldn’t distinguish white from gray.
“Female.” He said, and I sighed.
“Mine is a male.” I told him. “I hope you find the missing cat though. Thanks for calling.”
And we said good-bye and I scratched Chienne’s head as she settled her giant body in my lap. “I think we have a cat, sweetheart.”
In fact, there is a boy in my guest room. He just happens to be 5.1 pounds of feline. While Chienne and I continue to look at each post we pass on our walks, hoping to see a sign seeking the return of a small striped cat with a big striped collar, I’ve received no valid calls to claim him.
I woke up yesterday morning, walked the dog, then returned home to shower and dress so Sprout could visit the vet. I recently took Chienne to the small office in my little town and was surprised by how delightful they were. Quick, matter of fact, and excessively kind to my happy little dog. The sore spot on her side is healing nicely and the shot has helped tremendously with her allergies. God bless them.
After frowning over my lack of anything resembling a carrier – Chienne is a good little traveler and sits proudly in the front or sleeps in the back – I wrapped Sprout in his favorite flowered blanket and set him in the car. The garage door startled him and he darted behind the passenger seat where he meowed demandingly until we arrived at the vet.
I scooped him up, wrapped him snugly in the blanket so he couldn’t escape and went in the office. I told the receptionist my name and confirmed our 8:30 appointment time.
“For my cat. Well, not my cat. This cat. I found him. In the flower bed.” And I rubbed the side of my index finger across his tiny head. He must have an itty bitty brain, I mused. Then decided he was smart enough to select the house of a sucker. Choose the flower bed that was well tended, with a profusion of what could be weeds with pretty flowers. Meowed at the person who would respond with sympathy and worry, taking him in until his family could be found.
“Smart Sprout.” I praised, then sat on the wooden bench while the receptionist checked us in.
“Can I weigh you?” She asked him moments later, coming over and peering into his little face as I cradled his body wrapped in pastel blanket.
“It’s very nice.” I said. And shrugged when she asked if it was male or female. She took him, told me he was a boy (it is an undignified and intrusive process, poor little guy. I politely looked away.), then settled him on the same scale where Chienne had perched the week before. He was about 10% of the dog’s weight, and looked relieved to be held again. We entered an exam room, and I left his blanket bunched around his feet while I petted him. I don’t think he’s a lap cat. He wants my attention, but would rather be firmly on his pretty black paws while receiving it. So he stayed on his blanket, purring and looking around.
The tech entered, asked a couple questions and was busy writing things down.
“So,” I summarized, “just do whatever you need to do to make sure he’s OK. I’m looking for his family, so I might not have him for very long.
“What?” I asked, when her pen stilled and she gave me a look. “You don’t think I’ll find his family?”
She was saved from having to answer when the vet came in. He picked Sprout up and said they’d do tests for AIDS and leukemia. Then the vet and cat exited, leaving me with the tech.
“What if he’s positive?” I asked, trying not to care too much.
“The doctor will talk to you.” She said. “And you can decide what to do.”
I frowned, deciding to check my voice mail as I sat alone in the room after she left too, nodding in response to the random questions people popped in to ask. They were giving him Revolution for fleas, mites and worms, OK? Sure.
Would I like to vaccinate for rabies? After making sure it wouldn’t hurt him if he’d already had the appropriate shots (because who wouldn’t vaccinate for rabies?), I nodded. And upper respiratory? If he needs it, that’s fine.
They were cleaning his ears. I offered my thanks. His age was somewhere between 4 and 5 months. He still had his baby teeth. Lovely.
Hadn’t been fixed. Could I schedule that today? The tech had returned with little Sprout at this point, and he took a moment before purring in response to my petting his head.
“Sure.” She said as the doctor was busy writing notes in the back. I could see him through the open door.
“I might have to cancel.” I told her. “If his family finds him.” Frowning over twin expressions of amusement, I asked if I could remove the flea collar.
“The only way a flea collar is effective is if you can get it tight enough to actually crush a flea.” The vet noted, returning to his notes. “You can take it off if you want.”
“Did you put it on?” The tech asked, probably wondering if I was offended. I shook my head.
“His family gave it to him. I’m sure they’re looking for him. Because he does have a family.”
She nodded kindly and I heard the doctor stifle a laugh. I turned to him with raised eyebrows and smiled after he said, “Of course he has a family.” He stepped inside and scratched under Sprout’s chin. “I’m looking at her.” And with a wink at me, he left the room again.
“I think you’re my cat now.” I told Sprout. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.” So I left with samples of cat food, brochures, a vaccination record. They bundled him up in a cardboard carrier. I promptly opened it in response to his cries once we were in the car.
He seems good. He flattens his ears against his head and displays his claws when I clean his ears. They are disgusting with the ickiness, but Unnamed Friend says the mites will stay away if I keep them clean. He immediately rises to greet me when I enter his room. I spill litter on the floor when cleaning because he wants so much attention. The sore behind his ear was due to scratching at the mites. It’s healing nicely. He has a bit of white on his chin, but nowhere else. He only meows when demanding something – in the car, out in the hallway, when I leave his room with dirty litter before petting him an appropriate amount. His ears have black tips. His eyes are quite pretty. We’re getting to know each other.
He likes me, I think. About the dog? That remains to be seen.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Afraid in the dark
I woke up this morning at 4AM. I ran my hand over the soft blue sheets and nuzzled into my new pillowcase. I wake up nearly instantly, and consciously decide whether to be drowsy and doze or be productive and alert right away. Normally at 4:00, I’d go for the former – relax and ease into the day within the next couple hours.
Though I’m functional – I do my job, have friends, behave in a somewhat social manner – I’m pretty sure there’s some glitch in my brain chemistry. I’m sometimes different at night than I am during the day. It can be very subtle, but when worry is going to take over – make me whimper in despair and frantically search for any solution – it will happen in the darkness. And it happened this morning at 4.
It’s rare – an episode this severe and terrifying. But it’s happened enough that I can recognize it, understand that it’s not real – the sick feeling will soon ease and I’ll be fine, so I just try to cope through the panic. So when I started to gasp for air, found myself pacing the room because I was overwhelmed by a sense of wrongness, I tried to soothe. Let reason try to comfort this sick panic.
During the day, change seems good. I like small alterations in routines or in how furniture is arranged. I was thrilled with my new bedclothes. The smooth sheets and fluffy comforter – both in muted shades of the colors I’d used before. I am, after all, a creature of habit. But I found myself staring at the bed as I paced, feeling miserably off balance by even the slight change in how my bed looked. It could be viewed as an indication of all the things in life that I could alter with harmless intentions, setting off some sort of ripple effect that would rock the foundation of my entire world.
I took a deep breath, and sat down on the bed, running my hand over the soft flannel comforter. It was fine. I was OK. I’d just wait until tomorrow, and if I wanted to change the bedding back to the darker blue sheets and deeper gold comforter, I could do that. Everything was going to work out.
But then I thought of going to the guest room to take the gold comforter out of the chest of drawers where I’d stored it. Well, former guest room. I planted Sprout in there since it’s the one room I really don’t use, and he was doing fine when I said good night. But I didn’t want a cat. I want a guest room! What if I have guests?! Now there’s a cat in the guest room – litter box, food, water. I never said I wanted a cat – hadn’t thought about it or considered the ramifications. What if Sprout gave Chienne some disease?
I realized I was spinning. Had done the exact same thing when I found Chienne, though the process was certainly different. With my precious canine, I had carefully deliberated over getting a pet midway through grad school. Went over budgets. Carefully mapped out the time I’d be able to spend with her. Had to wait until my lease ran out before moving to a pet-friendly apartment away from campus. Then I pored over petfinder for hours. Read descriptions of breeds. Filled out questionnaires. Talked to shelter employees. Narrowed it down to 2 dogs, learned the Chienne had 10 days left to live, and selected her. I picked her up the day I moved into my apartment and slept with her on the floor because she wouldn’t stop shaking. The change was hard for her too.
Amidst all this planning, and surrounded by careful lists of questions to ask, items to purchase, people to call to make appointments for vet visits and obedience classes, I panicked. I remember sitting in the dark years ago – forced out of bed because I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think of anything positive. I didn’t know how to take care of a dog! What if she smelled bad? Got hair all over everything I owned? What if she bit someone? Or if she didn’t like me? I didn’t want to do this. Would call the shelter tomorrow and tell them I didn’t want her. Couldn’t take her. Everything could stay the same. I’d be fine.
I woke up the next morning with absolutely no desire to give up my claim on the pretty puppy. I did want her. Could have her. I loved her already. So why the panic? And I realized that it’s just something I do sometimes at night. Think I’m useless. Incapable. Weak. Unlovable. Ugly. This miserable being. And I can’t see out of it very well at all. Change - big or small - seems impossible. I did it with my choice of graduate schools. The dog. My house. Jobs after grad school. I pick something, am happy with it, start planning for it, then freak the hell out.
So I told myself that I could let the cat go. Simply open the door and shoo him away. But I had to wait until the morning to do it. I use the same trick when dealing with drunk people, actually. Agree completely with anything they say, but gently insist that they wait to act on what certainly are brilliant plans. "Of course you can buy a purple conversion van. We'll go look first thing tomorrow. After you sleep." "Yes, that man is evil and your plan for revenge is of high quality. We'll begin with the vengeance as soon as you wake up in the morning." That strategy helped for me momentarily, but I just bounced to the next worry.
I couldn’t move in another year! I still love The Plan, but that part is insane! This job is perfect – absolutely ideal to do what I want to do. I can’t do anything anywhere else! The very thought is absurd. I’m not all that talented.
And what if I can’t sell my house? Because I haven’t had the carpets professionally cleaned. Hadn’t landscaped the backyard at all. Nobody would want to live here. I’d have to pay rent somewhere else as well as my mortgage here. But that’s assuming I could even get another job. I probably can’t. There’s no way I could run a lab! Write grants! Support students! I should leave the academic world completely. And do… something. What if I can’t figure out what to do? Can’t make money to pay for a place to put all my pretty stuff?
And the blog! All of a sudden there are all these people reading it. And I liked my new friends until a bunch of new people showed up at once! I can't even keep track of where everyone's from and how they're finding me. What if they don’t understand what I’m trying to say? I’m offering all this information, but what if it’s misinterpreted? I write about personal topics on my blog - offer my thoughts for the judgement of others – however benevolent that judging is. And I do care what people think – would rather they not think of me at all rather than with derision or pity. I’m fine, after all. I should stop writing online. There are just too many people reading. And sometimes I'm kidding - making myself sound worse than I really am for some kind of dramatic effect. Other times I change my mind - read something old and shake my head at myself. This isn’t good - the stories and secrets and thoughts have somehow accumulated and seem huge. I'm far too vulnerable here.
So shaking and shaken, I crawled back in bed and tried to relax. It would all pass – I just had to get through until morning, then I’d be fine. I was drumming my fingers on the mattress, trying to focus, retain some semblance of control, then stood up and walked toward the bathroom. Quickly turned on the shower as hot as it would go, then got inside. Let the heat, spray and sound ease my thoughts as calm descended. I stood there for 10 minutes or so, mind blessedly quiet. I stepped out timidly, ready to retreat into the water again if I got scared again, but was breathing easily. So I dressed quickly, noticing how cool the house had become, and slipped between my new sheets, scooted closer to sleeping Chienne and closed my eyes. Eased into a gentle dream I can’t quite remember until it was time to wake just before 7:00.
My head hurt all day – I took Advil, then Excedrin four hours later, then Tylenol after I got home from work. Each dulled the throbbing misery, but didn’t take it away. I’ve felt constant pressure – physical pressure behind my eyes. But I’ve been content. I made my bed and admired the soft colors and didn't feel a single tug to bring back the old bedding. Took Sprout to the vet and ensured his health. Went to work and accomplished some tasks before sitting in meetings. Felt capable and at ease as I moved through my professional day. I have knowledge, skill and contacts - I'll find a new job when I need one. Shopped for my animals (because, yes, apparently I have a cat.) after work. Sprout – who will not be released into the wild – has a cat condo, good clumping litter, Cat Chow with a big airtight storage container. I took off his flea collar and ignored Chienne’s desperate whining at the door in favor of listening to his purring as he wound around my feet as I arranged his room, then sat on the bed to stroke his soft fur. And now I’m writing for the blog I wanted to abandon just last night. I very much appreciate that some of you take the time to read. To spend a few moments of your day considering me and whatever bit of personal information I decide to share. While you're not obligated to read or comment, neither do I wish for you to leave.
It’s strange as I consider it now. A very weird behavior that could be indicative of some mental problem. But I can control it – or at least the extent to which I act upon those feelings. But while it’s happening? It’s overwhelming. Terrifying. Misery to an extent that nerves turn to panic. I'm unable to breathe and calm myself though I know the thoughts aren’t representative of how I really feel. It’s most unpleasant. And I wanted to tell you about it because I got past it. Functioned just fine today, and hope I have a nice, long time before such a thing happens again. But when change reaches some critical mass, I tend to lose it - always at night - before reaching easy acceptance of those same changes the next day.
And if you're going to suggest therapy, I'll likely just smile at you. After all, even if I ended up going to see someone or taking medication, I suspect I'd wake up some night, trading peaceful sleep for panicked worry, thinking of how scary it was to take steps to alter my mental health.
Though I’m functional – I do my job, have friends, behave in a somewhat social manner – I’m pretty sure there’s some glitch in my brain chemistry. I’m sometimes different at night than I am during the day. It can be very subtle, but when worry is going to take over – make me whimper in despair and frantically search for any solution – it will happen in the darkness. And it happened this morning at 4.
It’s rare – an episode this severe and terrifying. But it’s happened enough that I can recognize it, understand that it’s not real – the sick feeling will soon ease and I’ll be fine, so I just try to cope through the panic. So when I started to gasp for air, found myself pacing the room because I was overwhelmed by a sense of wrongness, I tried to soothe. Let reason try to comfort this sick panic.
During the day, change seems good. I like small alterations in routines or in how furniture is arranged. I was thrilled with my new bedclothes. The smooth sheets and fluffy comforter – both in muted shades of the colors I’d used before. I am, after all, a creature of habit. But I found myself staring at the bed as I paced, feeling miserably off balance by even the slight change in how my bed looked. It could be viewed as an indication of all the things in life that I could alter with harmless intentions, setting off some sort of ripple effect that would rock the foundation of my entire world.
I took a deep breath, and sat down on the bed, running my hand over the soft flannel comforter. It was fine. I was OK. I’d just wait until tomorrow, and if I wanted to change the bedding back to the darker blue sheets and deeper gold comforter, I could do that. Everything was going to work out.
But then I thought of going to the guest room to take the gold comforter out of the chest of drawers where I’d stored it. Well, former guest room. I planted Sprout in there since it’s the one room I really don’t use, and he was doing fine when I said good night. But I didn’t want a cat. I want a guest room! What if I have guests?! Now there’s a cat in the guest room – litter box, food, water. I never said I wanted a cat – hadn’t thought about it or considered the ramifications. What if Sprout gave Chienne some disease?
I realized I was spinning. Had done the exact same thing when I found Chienne, though the process was certainly different. With my precious canine, I had carefully deliberated over getting a pet midway through grad school. Went over budgets. Carefully mapped out the time I’d be able to spend with her. Had to wait until my lease ran out before moving to a pet-friendly apartment away from campus. Then I pored over petfinder for hours. Read descriptions of breeds. Filled out questionnaires. Talked to shelter employees. Narrowed it down to 2 dogs, learned the Chienne had 10 days left to live, and selected her. I picked her up the day I moved into my apartment and slept with her on the floor because she wouldn’t stop shaking. The change was hard for her too.
Amidst all this planning, and surrounded by careful lists of questions to ask, items to purchase, people to call to make appointments for vet visits and obedience classes, I panicked. I remember sitting in the dark years ago – forced out of bed because I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think of anything positive. I didn’t know how to take care of a dog! What if she smelled bad? Got hair all over everything I owned? What if she bit someone? Or if she didn’t like me? I didn’t want to do this. Would call the shelter tomorrow and tell them I didn’t want her. Couldn’t take her. Everything could stay the same. I’d be fine.
I woke up the next morning with absolutely no desire to give up my claim on the pretty puppy. I did want her. Could have her. I loved her already. So why the panic? And I realized that it’s just something I do sometimes at night. Think I’m useless. Incapable. Weak. Unlovable. Ugly. This miserable being. And I can’t see out of it very well at all. Change - big or small - seems impossible. I did it with my choice of graduate schools. The dog. My house. Jobs after grad school. I pick something, am happy with it, start planning for it, then freak the hell out.
So I told myself that I could let the cat go. Simply open the door and shoo him away. But I had to wait until the morning to do it. I use the same trick when dealing with drunk people, actually. Agree completely with anything they say, but gently insist that they wait to act on what certainly are brilliant plans. "Of course you can buy a purple conversion van. We'll go look first thing tomorrow. After you sleep." "Yes, that man is evil and your plan for revenge is of high quality. We'll begin with the vengeance as soon as you wake up in the morning." That strategy helped for me momentarily, but I just bounced to the next worry.
I couldn’t move in another year! I still love The Plan, but that part is insane! This job is perfect – absolutely ideal to do what I want to do. I can’t do anything anywhere else! The very thought is absurd. I’m not all that talented.
And what if I can’t sell my house? Because I haven’t had the carpets professionally cleaned. Hadn’t landscaped the backyard at all. Nobody would want to live here. I’d have to pay rent somewhere else as well as my mortgage here. But that’s assuming I could even get another job. I probably can’t. There’s no way I could run a lab! Write grants! Support students! I should leave the academic world completely. And do… something. What if I can’t figure out what to do? Can’t make money to pay for a place to put all my pretty stuff?
And the blog! All of a sudden there are all these people reading it. And I liked my new friends until a bunch of new people showed up at once! I can't even keep track of where everyone's from and how they're finding me. What if they don’t understand what I’m trying to say? I’m offering all this information, but what if it’s misinterpreted? I write about personal topics on my blog - offer my thoughts for the judgement of others – however benevolent that judging is. And I do care what people think – would rather they not think of me at all rather than with derision or pity. I’m fine, after all. I should stop writing online. There are just too many people reading. And sometimes I'm kidding - making myself sound worse than I really am for some kind of dramatic effect. Other times I change my mind - read something old and shake my head at myself. This isn’t good - the stories and secrets and thoughts have somehow accumulated and seem huge. I'm far too vulnerable here.
So shaking and shaken, I crawled back in bed and tried to relax. It would all pass – I just had to get through until morning, then I’d be fine. I was drumming my fingers on the mattress, trying to focus, retain some semblance of control, then stood up and walked toward the bathroom. Quickly turned on the shower as hot as it would go, then got inside. Let the heat, spray and sound ease my thoughts as calm descended. I stood there for 10 minutes or so, mind blessedly quiet. I stepped out timidly, ready to retreat into the water again if I got scared again, but was breathing easily. So I dressed quickly, noticing how cool the house had become, and slipped between my new sheets, scooted closer to sleeping Chienne and closed my eyes. Eased into a gentle dream I can’t quite remember until it was time to wake just before 7:00.
My head hurt all day – I took Advil, then Excedrin four hours later, then Tylenol after I got home from work. Each dulled the throbbing misery, but didn’t take it away. I’ve felt constant pressure – physical pressure behind my eyes. But I’ve been content. I made my bed and admired the soft colors and didn't feel a single tug to bring back the old bedding. Took Sprout to the vet and ensured his health. Went to work and accomplished some tasks before sitting in meetings. Felt capable and at ease as I moved through my professional day. I have knowledge, skill and contacts - I'll find a new job when I need one. Shopped for my animals (because, yes, apparently I have a cat.) after work. Sprout – who will not be released into the wild – has a cat condo, good clumping litter, Cat Chow with a big airtight storage container. I took off his flea collar and ignored Chienne’s desperate whining at the door in favor of listening to his purring as he wound around my feet as I arranged his room, then sat on the bed to stroke his soft fur. And now I’m writing for the blog I wanted to abandon just last night. I very much appreciate that some of you take the time to read. To spend a few moments of your day considering me and whatever bit of personal information I decide to share. While you're not obligated to read or comment, neither do I wish for you to leave.
It’s strange as I consider it now. A very weird behavior that could be indicative of some mental problem. But I can control it – or at least the extent to which I act upon those feelings. But while it’s happening? It’s overwhelming. Terrifying. Misery to an extent that nerves turn to panic. I'm unable to breathe and calm myself though I know the thoughts aren’t representative of how I really feel. It’s most unpleasant. And I wanted to tell you about it because I got past it. Functioned just fine today, and hope I have a nice, long time before such a thing happens again. But when change reaches some critical mass, I tend to lose it - always at night - before reaching easy acceptance of those same changes the next day.
And if you're going to suggest therapy, I'll likely just smile at you. After all, even if I ended up going to see someone or taking medication, I suspect I'd wake up some night, trading peaceful sleep for panicked worry, thinking of how scary it was to take steps to alter my mental health.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Retail Therapy
I grew up in the Midwest. That means, I think, basically what you’d think it would mean. My values, how I act, people I like, how I drive - they've all been influenced by the place I call home. I’ve been to the HOIF, though not recently. When it’s not too cold or crowded, we take part in some form of FOLEPI. I relax when the land flattens out and eases into farms you can view far in the distance. When people speed up and drive in clusters. Where you honk at people because, honestly, that’s how they learn.
And so, when I preen in a new purchase – a striped top or strappy sandals, and I make sure you notice? There’s a reason. The exchange should go something like this.
You: Are those new? How pretty!
Me: They are new! $5 for the shoes! That’s 87% off the original retail price!
You: Really?! How did you get such a wonderful deal?
Me: They were on clearance, then there was a special sale on merchandise that was marked down. So with my coupon, they were almost free!
Then we nod at each other, both of us basking in my intelligence, hard work and frugal nature. Then I will tell you exactly how to find the shoes when you enter the store and offer advice on how to get your own coupon. Because I’m nice like that.
Oh, and if you can give me any set of ingredients that includes a can of cream soup and a casserole dish, I’m pretty sure I can make you a meal. It’s what we do.
I can laugh about folks from the Midwest because I consider myself to be one of them in all the best ways. We’re polite (unless you’re in our way when driving. Again, we’re just trying to educate you by following so closely or honking. It’s for your benefit, honestly. But, um, get out of the way). Our offers of help are immediate and sincere. Are you hungry? Would you like a casserole topped with something crunchy? Or cookies? (Add instant pudding for a good chocolate chip recipe. It makes them so soft!) Pie? (I have an easy, yet tasty recipe for a crust you make in the pie plate! No rolling pins needed!)
So while there are certainly people who are far more hip than I am who can also claim the Midwest as home, the people I grew up with – rode bikes around the neighborhood, rehearsed the school play, graduated high school on the football field – are a lot like me. This is not overwhelmingly positive, actually, but it’s comfortable. I respect money, and very much appreciate that I have more than I need. I don’t have keys to my parents’ house – it’s simply never locked. And if it were, I guarantee I could still get in. Life is relaxed, friendly, centered around family.
I finally took the advice for some retail therapy, and left the house with my little blue purse stuffed with coupons. I didn’t want clothes – I’ve lost enough weight that I don’t have to flip by many outfits in my closet thinking “too small, too small.” Instead, I actually put them on and marvel at how much I have to wear. Lovely. I have, however, been looking obsessively for new bedding. I own a single set of sheets for my bed, which I’m pretty sure is sacrilegious, and I’m tired of the gold comforter. It’s nice and silky, but it’s also dry clean only. So, armed with a Yankee Candle coupon (Buy 1, Get 1 Free!) that would send me to the mall with a plan to check department store linens, and a stack of Bed, Bath and Beyond coupons, I set off.
There was construction on the exit I favor, so I took the next one. It’s my least favorite exit in town. A light controls traffic flow, and I’ve never been through without seeing someone sitting outside on the curb. Today it was an older man in a wheelchair. He had a long sleeve tie died shirt – blues and greens mostly. Overalls covered it. His long beard was beginning to whiten, but I believe it was light to begin with. He had a dog – fluffy, small, white and tan – on his lap. And I watched a police offer approach him from behind. I sat in my car, iPod playing happily through its transmitter, credit cards tucked next to the coupons in my purse, stomach cramped.
My rural childhood exposed me to homeless/needy people very infrequently. Mom would take Brother and I to big cities alone sometimes, and she always felt badly for people less fortunate than we were. Though we were firmly told to politely refuse requests for money, we were also to treat people with respect. Bad luck was not confined to those who deserved it. God loves everyone. If you can think of a way to help someone who needs it (and does not compromise personal safety), then help.
I thought briefly of my walk this morning. A man approached and Chienne let him pat her head. He said he was visiting his daughter and wanted to take a walk to stretch his legs. I slowed my pace and we wandered together for about 10 minutes. Discussed differences between America and Scotland. My walking companion said that there was crime in his home city too – kidnappings, shootings.
“People are people.” He concluded, just before turning around to head to his daughter’s house so he didn’t get lost. “If you’re looking for bad, you’re certainly going to find it.”
Before I left for my trip, firmly set upon bringing home new bedclothes, I decided to view it positively. There is bad, but you can focus on the good. I’m ahead with some work, so I can take time to go shopping! Though I’d like to have a man in my life, I don’t need one for financial reasons! I could save $25 on candle purchases if I found that coupon I remembered seeing in the office! Delightful! Fantastic! Wonderful!
As I sat at the light, waiting to turn left when I actually needed to go right (stupid wrong exit and terrible sense of direction), the police officer politely requested the cardboard sign from the bearded man, read it, then folded it up and shook his head. The man in the tie died shirt was speaking earnestly, he and the dog looking up at the uniformed man. I felt heavy. Sad.
Perhaps you can find the bad – whether you’re looking for it or not – because it’s so pervasive. Even people like me – those so ridiculously blessed and lucky that it’s irritating to watch them complain – get sad. The feeling, deserved or not, is genuine. But then there are real problems. Though this particular gentleman might have been overdoing it – the wheelchair, the sign, the dog – I don’t know his circumstances. Perhaps he truly needed the money I was about to go spend. I don’t know. The light turned green, traffic moved, and when I fixed my mistake to drive in the other direction, he and the police car were gone.
I walked briskly through the mall, checking all three department stores, feeling crowded by the small aisles and excessive merchandise in Linens N Things, and made my way to a small shop to chose 2 fragrances of candles to use my coupon – I didn’t want to go home with nothing, after all. At that point, I was more sad than when I first left the house. So I wandered back to my car. Made it to the parking lot of Best Buy to look for an external storage device, but couldn’t make myself go in. So I drove through the connected parking lots and found myself across the street from Bed, Bath and Beyond. I recognized the onset of depression. I didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to go home, didn’t want to go to work. Listless, unhappy, irritated – so I sighed and decided that retail therapy was still desperately needed.
I pulled into the nearly empty parking lot and wandered inside, my little Midwestern heart perking up involuntarily at the big yellow circles with Clearance printed inside.
“I do like good deals.” I mused silently, and smiled weakly in response to the manger’s greeting. I gravitated immediately to the comforters along the front wall. I’ve looked – countless places online, Kmart, Target, department stores. Nothing was even moderately acceptable. I didn’t want to spend too much, but I’m very picky about bedding. Softness is critical. I like comforters fluffy, and I believe you get what you pay for.
I gravitated toward a soft, down filled comforter in soft cream. Could I have afforded $250? Sure. Was I cuddling it protectively in my arms while I scurried for a cart at its $50 price tag? Absolutely. After careful examination for stains, bad seams or tears, I deemed it perfect, wondered over its placement in the clearance section at such an amazing savings, then pushed my little gray cart around the store.
I found soft blue sheets – I have pewter in my guest room and adore them. I’m not sure how they make the Beech material (beechwood tree+magic=sheets, I think), but I enjoy them very much. Not only were they on sale, but I could use my coupons! I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but you should save those 20% off coupons they send. (Sometimes they’re $5 off – save those too.) The store will take the expired coupons and you can use up to 5 at a time. I didn’t think you could apply them to clearance merchandise, so that meant my comforter and bed skirt were out. But my sheets and two other little items would count.
Soothed by the open spaces, lack of crowds, bright lights, soft music and gently spicy scent, I found myself smiling over my bedding. It was perfect and the timing for finding it couldn’t have been better. At my hesitant inquiry near the register, I was informed that coupons could be used on clearance merchandise ($40 for my comforter! 86% off!), I ended up with complete bedding for under $100. Which means that when friends or family come visit and note how pretty my room is, I can proudly inform them not only of my superior taste, but also my intelligence, organization, memory and hard work at getting a great deal!
The point? Life can be sad. I believe it's inescapable to some extent. Shopping can help. King sized mattress are hard to flip by yourself. Oh, and if you find a good deal when shopping, let me know. I’ll be completely thrilled for you.
And so, when I preen in a new purchase – a striped top or strappy sandals, and I make sure you notice? There’s a reason. The exchange should go something like this.
You: Are those new? How pretty!
Me: They are new! $5 for the shoes! That’s 87% off the original retail price!
You: Really?! How did you get such a wonderful deal?
Me: They were on clearance, then there was a special sale on merchandise that was marked down. So with my coupon, they were almost free!
Then we nod at each other, both of us basking in my intelligence, hard work and frugal nature. Then I will tell you exactly how to find the shoes when you enter the store and offer advice on how to get your own coupon. Because I’m nice like that.
Oh, and if you can give me any set of ingredients that includes a can of cream soup and a casserole dish, I’m pretty sure I can make you a meal. It’s what we do.
I can laugh about folks from the Midwest because I consider myself to be one of them in all the best ways. We’re polite (unless you’re in our way when driving. Again, we’re just trying to educate you by following so closely or honking. It’s for your benefit, honestly. But, um, get out of the way). Our offers of help are immediate and sincere. Are you hungry? Would you like a casserole topped with something crunchy? Or cookies? (Add instant pudding for a good chocolate chip recipe. It makes them so soft!) Pie? (I have an easy, yet tasty recipe for a crust you make in the pie plate! No rolling pins needed!)
So while there are certainly people who are far more hip than I am who can also claim the Midwest as home, the people I grew up with – rode bikes around the neighborhood, rehearsed the school play, graduated high school on the football field – are a lot like me. This is not overwhelmingly positive, actually, but it’s comfortable. I respect money, and very much appreciate that I have more than I need. I don’t have keys to my parents’ house – it’s simply never locked. And if it were, I guarantee I could still get in. Life is relaxed, friendly, centered around family.
I finally took the advice for some retail therapy, and left the house with my little blue purse stuffed with coupons. I didn’t want clothes – I’ve lost enough weight that I don’t have to flip by many outfits in my closet thinking “too small, too small.” Instead, I actually put them on and marvel at how much I have to wear. Lovely. I have, however, been looking obsessively for new bedding. I own a single set of sheets for my bed, which I’m pretty sure is sacrilegious, and I’m tired of the gold comforter. It’s nice and silky, but it’s also dry clean only. So, armed with a Yankee Candle coupon (Buy 1, Get 1 Free!) that would send me to the mall with a plan to check department store linens, and a stack of Bed, Bath and Beyond coupons, I set off.
There was construction on the exit I favor, so I took the next one. It’s my least favorite exit in town. A light controls traffic flow, and I’ve never been through without seeing someone sitting outside on the curb. Today it was an older man in a wheelchair. He had a long sleeve tie died shirt – blues and greens mostly. Overalls covered it. His long beard was beginning to whiten, but I believe it was light to begin with. He had a dog – fluffy, small, white and tan – on his lap. And I watched a police offer approach him from behind. I sat in my car, iPod playing happily through its transmitter, credit cards tucked next to the coupons in my purse, stomach cramped.
My rural childhood exposed me to homeless/needy people very infrequently. Mom would take Brother and I to big cities alone sometimes, and she always felt badly for people less fortunate than we were. Though we were firmly told to politely refuse requests for money, we were also to treat people with respect. Bad luck was not confined to those who deserved it. God loves everyone. If you can think of a way to help someone who needs it (and does not compromise personal safety), then help.
I thought briefly of my walk this morning. A man approached and Chienne let him pat her head. He said he was visiting his daughter and wanted to take a walk to stretch his legs. I slowed my pace and we wandered together for about 10 minutes. Discussed differences between America and Scotland. My walking companion said that there was crime in his home city too – kidnappings, shootings.
“People are people.” He concluded, just before turning around to head to his daughter’s house so he didn’t get lost. “If you’re looking for bad, you’re certainly going to find it.”
Before I left for my trip, firmly set upon bringing home new bedclothes, I decided to view it positively. There is bad, but you can focus on the good. I’m ahead with some work, so I can take time to go shopping! Though I’d like to have a man in my life, I don’t need one for financial reasons! I could save $25 on candle purchases if I found that coupon I remembered seeing in the office! Delightful! Fantastic! Wonderful!
As I sat at the light, waiting to turn left when I actually needed to go right (stupid wrong exit and terrible sense of direction), the police officer politely requested the cardboard sign from the bearded man, read it, then folded it up and shook his head. The man in the tie died shirt was speaking earnestly, he and the dog looking up at the uniformed man. I felt heavy. Sad.
Perhaps you can find the bad – whether you’re looking for it or not – because it’s so pervasive. Even people like me – those so ridiculously blessed and lucky that it’s irritating to watch them complain – get sad. The feeling, deserved or not, is genuine. But then there are real problems. Though this particular gentleman might have been overdoing it – the wheelchair, the sign, the dog – I don’t know his circumstances. Perhaps he truly needed the money I was about to go spend. I don’t know. The light turned green, traffic moved, and when I fixed my mistake to drive in the other direction, he and the police car were gone.
I walked briskly through the mall, checking all three department stores, feeling crowded by the small aisles and excessive merchandise in Linens N Things, and made my way to a small shop to chose 2 fragrances of candles to use my coupon – I didn’t want to go home with nothing, after all. At that point, I was more sad than when I first left the house. So I wandered back to my car. Made it to the parking lot of Best Buy to look for an external storage device, but couldn’t make myself go in. So I drove through the connected parking lots and found myself across the street from Bed, Bath and Beyond. I recognized the onset of depression. I didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to go home, didn’t want to go to work. Listless, unhappy, irritated – so I sighed and decided that retail therapy was still desperately needed.
I pulled into the nearly empty parking lot and wandered inside, my little Midwestern heart perking up involuntarily at the big yellow circles with Clearance printed inside.
“I do like good deals.” I mused silently, and smiled weakly in response to the manger’s greeting. I gravitated immediately to the comforters along the front wall. I’ve looked – countless places online, Kmart, Target, department stores. Nothing was even moderately acceptable. I didn’t want to spend too much, but I’m very picky about bedding. Softness is critical. I like comforters fluffy, and I believe you get what you pay for.
I gravitated toward a soft, down filled comforter in soft cream. Could I have afforded $250? Sure. Was I cuddling it protectively in my arms while I scurried for a cart at its $50 price tag? Absolutely. After careful examination for stains, bad seams or tears, I deemed it perfect, wondered over its placement in the clearance section at such an amazing savings, then pushed my little gray cart around the store.
I found soft blue sheets – I have pewter in my guest room and adore them. I’m not sure how they make the Beech material (beechwood tree+magic=sheets, I think), but I enjoy them very much. Not only were they on sale, but I could use my coupons! I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but you should save those 20% off coupons they send. (Sometimes they’re $5 off – save those too.) The store will take the expired coupons and you can use up to 5 at a time. I didn’t think you could apply them to clearance merchandise, so that meant my comforter and bed skirt were out. But my sheets and two other little items would count.
Soothed by the open spaces, lack of crowds, bright lights, soft music and gently spicy scent, I found myself smiling over my bedding. It was perfect and the timing for finding it couldn’t have been better. At my hesitant inquiry near the register, I was informed that coupons could be used on clearance merchandise ($40 for my comforter! 86% off!), I ended up with complete bedding for under $100. Which means that when friends or family come visit and note how pretty my room is, I can proudly inform them not only of my superior taste, but also my intelligence, organization, memory and hard work at getting a great deal!
The point? Life can be sad. I believe it's inescapable to some extent. Shopping can help. King sized mattress are hard to flip by yourself. Oh, and if you find a good deal when shopping, let me know. I’ll be completely thrilled for you.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Found in the Flower Bed
Remember how I said that I haven’t planted anything in my flower beds? I just take care of whatever comes up. Weed around that plants that produce flowers. I’m darn proud of that flower bed – I like it a lot.
I left work early to go shopping today – I’m ahead on one project and don’t know what to do with another. Plus, I’m still blah. And I do like new stuff. So that was good – story to come later.
I returned home and had just settled in with the laptop when someone knocked at the door. I scampered up to find the UPS guy heading back to his truck. He waved when I called my thanks, then I grabbed my package and headed inside. Frowning. I had heard something outside – over the truck’s engine and other cars going by.
“Did you hear that?” I asked Chienne, and she cocked her head at me. “I think I heard something.” I continued.
So I opened the door again, pushing the dog back inside, and stood on my porch in the sunshine.
“Hello?” I called.
And heard a meow in return.
“Hello?” I said again, squinting as I searched for the cat. It continued to answer my inquiries, and finally peeked out from behind one of my newly pruned bushes. The middle one, actually.
“Well.” I said, smiling down and over at it. “Aren’t you pretty? Are you lost?” It didn’t answer me any more than my dog did.
“Hmmm.” I said, still speaking softly and standing still on the porch. I know – and was recently reminded at Unnamed Friend’s apartment – that cats must come to you. Chasing them down, hands outstretched and ready to pet tends to freak them out. “Are you thirsty? I could go get some water.” I offered. Then headed inside to do so.
I considered my options as I moved through the living room to the kitchen. Would a cat drink Coconut Crème Coffee-mate? It’s quite tasty, but I wasn’t sure it was appropriate to give to an animal. Maybe if I watered it down?
“I have milk!” I told Chienne, who was circling my feet in excitement. I rarely go out the front door without her. When I go to work or on errands, I use the garage. I nearly tripped over her as I hurried to fill a bowl with milk. After seeing a homeless man earlier today and doing nothing, I was not about to let another possible good deed pass me by. The cat was getting some milk.
I didn’t see it when I went outside, and wrinkled my nose in dismay, setting the bowl on the corner of the porch. “Hello? Kitten? Did you leave?”
It meowed in response and I smiled as I saw its head appear from the shade behind the middle bush.
“I brought milk.” I told it. “I don’t always have milk, but there are these boxed noodles that require it. They’re good, actually. There are parmesan, some kind of herb variety, white cheddar. I like them. But you need milk to make them, which is lucky for you. I think cats like milk.”
It moved toward me and I stepped back from the bowl - trying to appear harmless, watching as it consumed the milk with dainty greed. It looked up at me when it finished. Meowed. And rubbed against the hand I held in front of it.
“Hi.” I murmured. I sat down on the porch and petted, cooed over its friendly nature, then frowned over the sore behind its ear. “You should go home.” I advised. “It’s not that I don’t like you – I think you’re very nice. But I don’t want a cat. I have a dog. Plus, you have a collar. Your family must miss you.” But I frowned over how thin the animal was. My animals are, granted, a bit chubby historically. Chienne is about 15 pounds heavier than when I got her. I equate food with love. It’s a problem.
But I really don’t want a cat, so I went inside. Watched TV. Typed out my shopping story. Then frowned at the front door. I sighed at myself, went to the kitchen to fill a bottle with water, then nudged Chienne back and stepped back out on the porch. The cat refused water, but accepted much more petting. I sat for about 30 minutes, watching cars go by, making friends with this furry creature from my flower bed.
But I talked myself into coming in. Found myself going back out to offer tuna. The cat finished half a can and almost choked from hurrying. Maybe it had been lost for quite some time. But, no. I don’t want a cat. I’ve never wanted a cat. I have a dog. She’s plenty.
But I went back out again to offer more milk. I was afraid it was thirsty after the tuna. Again to see if it was there. (I keep using it because I don’t know the gender. Looking at private places to ascertain something I don’t really need to know seems… intrusive. Impolite. I can’t do it.) It continued to retreat behind the bush when I’d come inside, scampering out to greet me now that it knew I was a friendly presence.
So I called my vet. Asked them what to do. The receptionist gave me the number for animal control, and I asked what they’d do. I didn’t want them to come take it, I said. It was a nice cat. And I’m sure its family would be looking for it soon.
“I don’t know what to tell you.” She said. “Just call animal control and see what they say.”
I looked at Chienne and shook my head. When I was younger – just turned 16 – Brother brought home a kitten. A tiny gray one – sweet, small, fuzzy. Mom refused to let him keep it. She’d told him no, he thought he could get around her by just bringing it home, she wouldn’t even look at it, and we had to take it to the shelter. Along with the litter box, food and toys he’d bought for it. He sobbed the whole way there. I joined him the whole way home. It was awful – I’m still bitterly ashamed that I did it. There’s no way in hell I’m taking this cat to the shelter.
So, like a child, I called and lied. I waited patiently to talk to a PAWS representative, trying to come up with a plausible way to ask advice without confirming I had a lost cat.
“Hello. I’m Katie.” I said. “I had a quick question for you. I’m, um, at work.” Then I winced when the dog barked and ran out the back door to bark at the kids coming home from school. “Anyway, I noticed a cat in my flower bed this morning before I left, and I wondered what I should do if it was still there when I got home.
“Not that it will be. I mean, it might be there. But not necessarily. I just wondered what the options were.”
“Of course! I’m not afraid of the cat. It’s a nice cat. It drank milk and let me pet it.” I told her when she asked if I could approach it.
“Well,” She responded, “I can’t turn you down since you live in the county. You can bring it in if you’d like.”
“No.” I said before I could stop myself.
“OK. That’s actually good. We get about 60 cats each day, so the chances of finding it a new home are slim. So it’d be good if you could find the people who lost him.”
“But can I keep it until then? Do I just leave it outside? What if it rains? Or gets too cold?”
“I don’t know the rules about keeping strays.” She said. “I think you should put up fliers. Maybe an ad in the newspaper. And I can take your name here too. Hopefully someone will claim him.”
So I nodded, gave her my information and a description of the cat, then went out to check it again. The spot behind its ear was much worse – the bugs must have been getting in it as the cat hid behind the bushes. I could hear it purring as I petted it, letting it rub against my fingers, then the porch rail, then the plants.
“Shit.” I said softly, told it I’d be back and came inside to soothe Chienne – who was nearly frantic by now as she ran from the office where she could see us to the front door where she could cry pitifully. The cat, by the way, arched its back and hissed impressively upon seeing my pretty dog. It was decidedly not excited about befriending her.
I then called my vet back to make an appointment for my new – hopefully, Please God, temporary – friend. We go tomorrow morning – we’ll get the sore taken care of, and if we should vaccinate, I’ll do that too. Then – because I’m not a cat person – I went to the store to buy a "litter box" - I decided a random plastic container should work, litter and food. I decided I’d keep the cat in the garage until I could ascertain its health status. It was better than outside, right?
So I got it all set up – towels on the carpet square in front of the washer and dryer. Litter box and litter. Food, water, milk. Then I lured the cat in with tuna, closed the garage door while it huddled under the car, and soothed it with milk and attention. I decided to spray behind its ear with medicated antiseptic – it, um, didn’t like that. So back under the car it went and back inside I came. To make fliers.
Chienne and I went around the neighborhood to put them up. I nailed them into the posts with the other announcements, checking hopefully for someone looking for the little cat. No such luck. I came home and went to check on the cat, and promptly decided it was too warm in the garage. Hardly the appropriate place to put a guest. After all, I do have a guest room.
So I moved everything in – towels and a blanket on the bed, litter box, water, milk, food. Then put Chienne in my room with treats, and picked up the kitty to place it in its new – hopefully, Please God, temporary – home. It explored for a moment, then gave me a look upon seeing the litter box.
“Oh.” I said, abashed. “OK. I’ll get something bigger. Hold on.”
After I found a more suitable container, I transferred the Fresh Step litter and watched the cat land gracefully in it from her perch on the nightstand. I was filled with gratitude when it squatted – I don’t know how to litter train a cat, so I’m pleased it came with prior knowledge. It lapped at the milk, finally nearly full, I think. Then jumped on the bed and curled on the blanket I’d arranged for it. I petted it for a moment, then came back to the living room to work.
I’ve checked on it twice now – it seems to be resting comfortably on the blanket on my pretty gray sheets. Is there anything else I should be doing? Cat people out there? Advice? Chienne is alternately demanding attention from me and guarding the guest room door (which remains firmly latched – the cat is trapped, but safe). Me? I think it’s rather amusing. Single people are supposed to have cats to truly be a cliché, yes? So there you go. I accept my single nature, and, like magic, a cat appears.
I don’t want to keep it. I have no idea how to introduce the cat and my dog. I very much hope I can find the family that put on the purple flea collar that’s far too large. Perhaps my Unnamed Friend would like another cat? Or I can find someone at work who could love it? But if not?
I believe I’ll name it Sprout.
I left work early to go shopping today – I’m ahead on one project and don’t know what to do with another. Plus, I’m still blah. And I do like new stuff. So that was good – story to come later.
I returned home and had just settled in with the laptop when someone knocked at the door. I scampered up to find the UPS guy heading back to his truck. He waved when I called my thanks, then I grabbed my package and headed inside. Frowning. I had heard something outside – over the truck’s engine and other cars going by.
“Did you hear that?” I asked Chienne, and she cocked her head at me. “I think I heard something.” I continued.
So I opened the door again, pushing the dog back inside, and stood on my porch in the sunshine.
“Hello?” I called.
And heard a meow in return.
“Hello?” I said again, squinting as I searched for the cat. It continued to answer my inquiries, and finally peeked out from behind one of my newly pruned bushes. The middle one, actually.
“Well.” I said, smiling down and over at it. “Aren’t you pretty? Are you lost?” It didn’t answer me any more than my dog did.
“Hmmm.” I said, still speaking softly and standing still on the porch. I know – and was recently reminded at Unnamed Friend’s apartment – that cats must come to you. Chasing them down, hands outstretched and ready to pet tends to freak them out. “Are you thirsty? I could go get some water.” I offered. Then headed inside to do so.
I considered my options as I moved through the living room to the kitchen. Would a cat drink Coconut Crème Coffee-mate? It’s quite tasty, but I wasn’t sure it was appropriate to give to an animal. Maybe if I watered it down?“I have milk!” I told Chienne, who was circling my feet in excitement. I rarely go out the front door without her. When I go to work or on errands, I use the garage. I nearly tripped over her as I hurried to fill a bowl with milk. After seeing a homeless man earlier today and doing nothing, I was not about to let another possible good deed pass me by. The cat was getting some milk.
I didn’t see it when I went outside, and wrinkled my nose in dismay, setting the bowl on the corner of the porch. “Hello? Kitten? Did you leave?”
It meowed in response and I smiled as I saw its head appear from the shade behind the middle bush.
“I brought milk.” I told it. “I don’t always have milk, but there are these boxed noodles that require it. They’re good, actually. There are parmesan, some kind of herb variety, white cheddar. I like them. But you need milk to make them, which is lucky for you. I think cats like milk.”
It moved toward me and I stepped back from the bowl - trying to appear harmless, watching as it consumed the milk with dainty greed. It looked up at me when it finished. Meowed. And rubbed against the hand I held in front of it.
“Hi.” I murmured. I sat down on the porch and petted, cooed over its friendly nature, then frowned over the sore behind its ear. “You should go home.” I advised. “It’s not that I don’t like you – I think you’re very nice. But I don’t want a cat. I have a dog. Plus, you have a collar. Your family must miss you.” But I frowned over how thin the animal was. My animals are, granted, a bit chubby historically. Chienne is about 15 pounds heavier than when I got her. I equate food with love. It’s a problem.
But I really don’t want a cat, so I went inside. Watched TV. Typed out my shopping story. Then frowned at the front door. I sighed at myself, went to the kitchen to fill a bottle with water, then nudged Chienne back and stepped back out on the porch. The cat refused water, but accepted much more petting. I sat for about 30 minutes, watching cars go by, making friends with this furry creature from my flower bed.
But I talked myself into coming in. Found myself going back out to offer tuna. The cat finished half a can and almost choked from hurrying. Maybe it had been lost for quite some time. But, no. I don’t want a cat. I’ve never wanted a cat. I have a dog. She’s plenty.
But I went back out again to offer more milk. I was afraid it was thirsty after the tuna. Again to see if it was there. (I keep using it because I don’t know the gender. Looking at private places to ascertain something I don’t really need to know seems… intrusive. Impolite. I can’t do it.) It continued to retreat behind the bush when I’d come inside, scampering out to greet me now that it knew I was a friendly presence.
So I called my vet. Asked them what to do. The receptionist gave me the number for animal control, and I asked what they’d do. I didn’t want them to come take it, I said. It was a nice cat. And I’m sure its family would be looking for it soon.
“I don’t know what to tell you.” She said. “Just call animal control and see what they say.”
I looked at Chienne and shook my head. When I was younger – just turned 16 – Brother brought home a kitten. A tiny gray one – sweet, small, fuzzy. Mom refused to let him keep it. She’d told him no, he thought he could get around her by just bringing it home, she wouldn’t even look at it, and we had to take it to the shelter. Along with the litter box, food and toys he’d bought for it. He sobbed the whole way there. I joined him the whole way home. It was awful – I’m still bitterly ashamed that I did it. There’s no way in hell I’m taking this cat to the shelter.
So, like a child, I called and lied. I waited patiently to talk to a PAWS representative, trying to come up with a plausible way to ask advice without confirming I had a lost cat.
“Hello. I’m Katie.” I said. “I had a quick question for you. I’m, um, at work.” Then I winced when the dog barked and ran out the back door to bark at the kids coming home from school. “Anyway, I noticed a cat in my flower bed this morning before I left, and I wondered what I should do if it was still there when I got home.
“Not that it will be. I mean, it might be there. But not necessarily. I just wondered what the options were.”“Of course! I’m not afraid of the cat. It’s a nice cat. It drank milk and let me pet it.” I told her when she asked if I could approach it.
“Well,” She responded, “I can’t turn you down since you live in the county. You can bring it in if you’d like.”
“No.” I said before I could stop myself.
“OK. That’s actually good. We get about 60 cats each day, so the chances of finding it a new home are slim. So it’d be good if you could find the people who lost him.”
“But can I keep it until then? Do I just leave it outside? What if it rains? Or gets too cold?”
“I don’t know the rules about keeping strays.” She said. “I think you should put up fliers. Maybe an ad in the newspaper. And I can take your name here too. Hopefully someone will claim him.”
So I nodded, gave her my information and a description of the cat, then went out to check it again. The spot behind its ear was much worse – the bugs must have been getting in it as the cat hid behind the bushes. I could hear it purring as I petted it, letting it rub against my fingers, then the porch rail, then the plants.
“Shit.” I said softly, told it I’d be back and came inside to soothe Chienne – who was nearly frantic by now as she ran from the office where she could see us to the front door where she could cry pitifully. The cat, by the way, arched its back and hissed impressively upon seeing my pretty dog. It was decidedly not excited about befriending her.
I then called my vet back to make an appointment for my new – hopefully, Please God, temporary – friend. We go tomorrow morning – we’ll get the sore taken care of, and if we should vaccinate, I’ll do that too. Then – because I’m not a cat person – I went to the store to buy a "litter box" - I decided a random plastic container should work, litter and food. I decided I’d keep the cat in the garage until I could ascertain its health status. It was better than outside, right?
So I got it all set up – towels on the carpet square in front of the washer and dryer. Litter box and litter. Food, water, milk. Then I lured the cat in with tuna, closed the garage door while it huddled under the car, and soothed it with milk and attention. I decided to spray behind its ear with medicated antiseptic – it, um, didn’t like that. So back under the car it went and back inside I came. To make fliers.
Chienne and I went around the neighborhood to put them up. I nailed them into the posts with the other announcements, checking hopefully for someone looking for the little cat. No such luck. I came home and went to check on the cat, and promptly decided it was too warm in the garage. Hardly the appropriate place to put a guest. After all, I do have a guest room.
So I moved everything in – towels and a blanket on the bed, litter box, water, milk, food. Then put Chienne in my room with treats, and picked up the kitty to place it in its new – hopefully, Please God, temporary – home. It explored for a moment, then gave me a look upon seeing the litter box.
“Oh.” I said, abashed. “OK. I’ll get something bigger. Hold on.”
After I found a more suitable container, I transferred the Fresh Step litter and watched the cat land gracefully in it from her perch on the nightstand. I was filled with gratitude when it squatted – I don’t know how to litter train a cat, so I’m pleased it came with prior knowledge. It lapped at the milk, finally nearly full, I think. Then jumped on the bed and curled on the blanket I’d arranged for it. I petted it for a moment, then came back to the living room to work.
I’ve checked on it twice now – it seems to be resting comfortably on the blanket on my pretty gray sheets. Is there anything else I should be doing? Cat people out there? Advice? Chienne is alternately demanding attention from me and guarding the guest room door (which remains firmly latched – the cat is trapped, but safe). Me? I think it’s rather amusing. Single people are supposed to have cats to truly be a cliché, yes? So there you go. I accept my single nature, and, like magic, a cat appears.
I don’t want to keep it. I have no idea how to introduce the cat and my dog. I very much hope I can find the family that put on the purple flea collar that’s far too large. Perhaps my Unnamed Friend would like another cat? Or I can find someone at work who could love it? But if not?
I believe I’ll name it Sprout.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Oooh! Another carnival!
The Second Carnival of GRADual Progress is at StyleyGeek's. If you haven't enjoyed it already, I hope you do so soon. There's all kinds of good stuff out there - much of which I hadn't already read. Have fun!
Long story, predictable ending
I went to grad school a new person. I’d lost weight, felt more confident, was absolutely ready to spend two years studying, then face a future full of high income, moving home, starting a family. Stability. Love.
Yeah, that all went to hell.
But that first summer – when I always had messages on my answering machine, when I was full of hope, when I went running (yes, running. For miles.) every morning by the lake – I felt beautiful, strong, smart and completely thrilled with all that life held for me. I went to bars. Drank. Talked to M for hours – our very first meeting, after months of email, we sat at the Union for eight hours and drank soda. Told secrets. Started cementing a friendship that continues to leave me profoundly grateful.
I had a crush – a really good one, actually. I’d shiver when he’d talk into directly into my ear at concerts. Then would get to lean close so he could hear my reply. We shared a stool at my least favorite bar in grad school city, and drank from the same glass (I know – it’s all quite sexy. Trust me when I tell you it was fantastic at the time.) one night. I remember visiting his tiny office and flirting shamelessly. He called one night before I went out with a different guy (Me! I know! It was a long time ago.) and told me I should blow Dave off to come over. Nothing ever happened, but it was so different. To do some mutual flirting. To see a genuine smile of greeting. To sit a bit too close and have him scoot even closer.
That summer before classes started – May to August, 2001 – was doubtless my peak of social activity. I would stop to stare at myself when I walked by mirrored surfaces – I just felt so new and different.
I got a phone call from Mom – one where she was appropriately pleased with all my newly discovered social tendencies – and was told that Mandy would be coming to campus. She was going to do another undergraduate degree since she didn’t want to work in childhood education. So her parents had taken out loans and she wondered if I’d like to share an apartment. I emphatically refused, then waited with dread for her to arrive.
“She doesn’t know anyone.” Mom said. “But don’t spend too much time with her.”
“I can’t.” I said softly. “I don’t want to do that anymore. Be that person.”
Mandy was, of course, the pretty one. Popular. I embarrassed her in high school – clinging to our childhood friendship that she wanted desperately to forget in favor of befriending other girls. I realized it one day, and, miserably embarrassed, cut off most contact with her. By senior year, we barely spoke. I did quite well for myself. National Merit Scholar, Best Student in English, Science and Spanish. American Legion Award. Some honor for editing the school newspaper. President of the National Honor Society. Student Council all four years. Peer counselor. Salutatorian (Trust me when I tell you of the quality of my speech too. Really.)
Right before graduation, I looked at her seated in the bleachers from my chair on the floor. We were gathering our awards for various honors and with absolutely no modesty, it was pretty much my day. In a class of 200, I was able to shine brightly. Mandy smiled at me, seated next to her boyfriend, and I thought it was strangely appropriate. She was happy – had her friends and boyfriend. I was successful – had a pile of awards I placed neatly beneath my seat as my parents watched proudly from the second row. It was a good day, and that was basically how I remembered her since we talked maybe twice through undergrad. She was pretty, sweet and social. I was smart, driven and successful.
But who wants to play that character in the novel? So, thrilled with my new role in my grad school city, I didn’t want to slip back into those characters upon her arrival. We did, of course. Habits are hard to break, and I think I am that person – smart, driven, successful – much more than I was pretty and social. And that’s fine. I had fun trying it on, and lost it in a miserable fit of failure once classes started.
We didn’t live together – I refused with no regrets and she found an adorable place in an old mansion. We saw each other quite a bit at first – she developed a crush on my crush (nothing happened with either of us – smart guy.), found a few other friends, and called me when things were bad. That’s a role I play well – sympathetic, comforting, nurturing. So I held her hand when she was in the ER for migraines. I sat in her apartment and listened to how she missed HighSchoolBoy1. Then wept over HighSchoolBoy2. Then started seeing 1. Dumped him for 2. Wanted to quit school to be with 1. No, 2. Dated other guys, but couldn’t stop thinking about 1. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
After some initial contact, I got busy with classes and I guess she did the same. Other than a couple evenings when she needed help, we didn’t speak until the end of my second year. We met for dinner after M had graduated. Mandy had started online dating and had delightful stories. I opened up and shared some of my own. We talked – neither of us feeling very smart or capable at school or dating – and laughed and had a fabulous time. We did OK, meeting a few times, having dinners on the west side of town where I had my apartment. She met my dog and laughed when noting that she had every coloring possible somewhere on her.
“Look!” Mandy laughed while fending off kisses and jumps. “She’s spotted on her tummy, white nose and paws, black, and brindle. This dog is a mutt, Katie.” And I nodded proudly and tried to make Chienne sit.
The last time I remember seeing her – years ago – we met at Mandy’s favorite place for dinner. Downtown – I always ended up driving past it before finding parking because I’d get lost on the one way streets I rarely drove. We had dinner and talked and everything was fine.
Until she insisted we had across the streets for drinks. She frowned over my wrinkled nose.
“It’s not loud or too dark or overwhelming. It’s very subtle. Classy. You’ll like it. I promise.”
After continued prodding, I agreed to one drink, and we headed across the street. I remember sitting next to her at the bar drinking something with cranberry juice. It was bitter. As was the feeling of yet again being the not-so-pretty one. I had gained weight. Was firmly in my casually dressed phase of grad school. I felt plain next to Mandy in her skimpy little outfit and bouncing blonde curls. It was awkward and I let her know I was leaving after one drink.
She walked with me to our cars in the parking structure, and I tensed when she started to lecture. About how I presented myself. Clothes, hair, makeup, attitude.
“You need to get out there!” She said passionately. “Meet men. Date. I know you don’t want to end up alone. So you need to try. Just try.”
I turned to face her after reaching my car, unlocked the door, and narrowed my eyes. Then, trying mightily to stifle the venom I so desperately wanted to spew, I said something like, “I see it this way. I could try – make myself into something I’m not. Be uncomfortable and wonder if the man saw me or this person I was trying to create for him. Force myself into situations where I’d be watching the clock like I was in the bar. Do what you did – date, fall in love, hope that a man would eventually love me enough to keep me. And more power to you.” Then I shrugged, showing I didn’t believe it.
“But, Mandy? We’re both going home alone. I don’t envy you the dates – I don’t want them. I want to work, do research, figure out my professional future. I know you’re going a different direction, but for now? We’re in the same spot. All those broken hearts haven’t landed you ahead. So I’m out. I’ll do it my way.”
Years and maybe three emails later, she lives on the west coast and I’m here in the south. Neither of us married, both of us trying to figure out what to do to earn money. I suspect she’ll find someone. She does, after all, try. And my efforts have been marked by fear. This terrible certainty that once he knows enough, he'll certainly opt out.
But I remember driving home that night – hurt, angry and somehow hopeless. So, as I’m fond of doing, I talked to myself. Said firmly that I wouldn’t settle – I’d rather be alone than with someone who doesn’t think I’m wonderful. Then quietly found my way through a city I now find myself missing dearly to my first floor apartment and puppy. I cuddled next to her on the couch that night and somehow knew that I wasn’t going to find anyone there. That apartment would belong to us alone. And while there were visitors, there was nobody I wanted to stay.
I had higher hopes for this house. A bed that’s certainly big enough to share. Plenty of space to co-exist with someone peacefully, I thought hopefully as I moved in and put things away. Had this really good fantasy set in my guest room. Could picture someone here in my living room while we watched TV. That mental image has been gently pushed away. It’s not happening here. I don’t go in my guest room anymore – the door is kept closed and I didn’t realize exactly why until I refused to sleep there last time my parents visited. I just know. And age and hope and optimism have nothing to do with it somehow.
Then – poor, younger Katie in grad school – and now. It feels remarkably similar. And each time I feel this way, I see how my future will be. Wondering why I feel sad and realizing that it’s because I’m alone. The hope hurts and the mental image slipped away. I’d like very much to be wrong. I just don’t think I am.
Yeah, that all went to hell.
But that first summer – when I always had messages on my answering machine, when I was full of hope, when I went running (yes, running. For miles.) every morning by the lake – I felt beautiful, strong, smart and completely thrilled with all that life held for me. I went to bars. Drank. Talked to M for hours – our very first meeting, after months of email, we sat at the Union for eight hours and drank soda. Told secrets. Started cementing a friendship that continues to leave me profoundly grateful.
I had a crush – a really good one, actually. I’d shiver when he’d talk into directly into my ear at concerts. Then would get to lean close so he could hear my reply. We shared a stool at my least favorite bar in grad school city, and drank from the same glass (I know – it’s all quite sexy. Trust me when I tell you it was fantastic at the time.) one night. I remember visiting his tiny office and flirting shamelessly. He called one night before I went out with a different guy (Me! I know! It was a long time ago.) and told me I should blow Dave off to come over. Nothing ever happened, but it was so different. To do some mutual flirting. To see a genuine smile of greeting. To sit a bit too close and have him scoot even closer.
That summer before classes started – May to August, 2001 – was doubtless my peak of social activity. I would stop to stare at myself when I walked by mirrored surfaces – I just felt so new and different.
I got a phone call from Mom – one where she was appropriately pleased with all my newly discovered social tendencies – and was told that Mandy would be coming to campus. She was going to do another undergraduate degree since she didn’t want to work in childhood education. So her parents had taken out loans and she wondered if I’d like to share an apartment. I emphatically refused, then waited with dread for her to arrive.
“She doesn’t know anyone.” Mom said. “But don’t spend too much time with her.”
“I can’t.” I said softly. “I don’t want to do that anymore. Be that person.”
Mandy was, of course, the pretty one. Popular. I embarrassed her in high school – clinging to our childhood friendship that she wanted desperately to forget in favor of befriending other girls. I realized it one day, and, miserably embarrassed, cut off most contact with her. By senior year, we barely spoke. I did quite well for myself. National Merit Scholar, Best Student in English, Science and Spanish. American Legion Award. Some honor for editing the school newspaper. President of the National Honor Society. Student Council all four years. Peer counselor. Salutatorian (Trust me when I tell you of the quality of my speech too. Really.)
Right before graduation, I looked at her seated in the bleachers from my chair on the floor. We were gathering our awards for various honors and with absolutely no modesty, it was pretty much my day. In a class of 200, I was able to shine brightly. Mandy smiled at me, seated next to her boyfriend, and I thought it was strangely appropriate. She was happy – had her friends and boyfriend. I was successful – had a pile of awards I placed neatly beneath my seat as my parents watched proudly from the second row. It was a good day, and that was basically how I remembered her since we talked maybe twice through undergrad. She was pretty, sweet and social. I was smart, driven and successful.
But who wants to play that character in the novel? So, thrilled with my new role in my grad school city, I didn’t want to slip back into those characters upon her arrival. We did, of course. Habits are hard to break, and I think I am that person – smart, driven, successful – much more than I was pretty and social. And that’s fine. I had fun trying it on, and lost it in a miserable fit of failure once classes started.
We didn’t live together – I refused with no regrets and she found an adorable place in an old mansion. We saw each other quite a bit at first – she developed a crush on my crush (nothing happened with either of us – smart guy.), found a few other friends, and called me when things were bad. That’s a role I play well – sympathetic, comforting, nurturing. So I held her hand when she was in the ER for migraines. I sat in her apartment and listened to how she missed HighSchoolBoy1. Then wept over HighSchoolBoy2. Then started seeing 1. Dumped him for 2. Wanted to quit school to be with 1. No, 2. Dated other guys, but couldn’t stop thinking about 1. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
After some initial contact, I got busy with classes and I guess she did the same. Other than a couple evenings when she needed help, we didn’t speak until the end of my second year. We met for dinner after M had graduated. Mandy had started online dating and had delightful stories. I opened up and shared some of my own. We talked – neither of us feeling very smart or capable at school or dating – and laughed and had a fabulous time. We did OK, meeting a few times, having dinners on the west side of town where I had my apartment. She met my dog and laughed when noting that she had every coloring possible somewhere on her.
“Look!” Mandy laughed while fending off kisses and jumps. “She’s spotted on her tummy, white nose and paws, black, and brindle. This dog is a mutt, Katie.” And I nodded proudly and tried to make Chienne sit.
The last time I remember seeing her – years ago – we met at Mandy’s favorite place for dinner. Downtown – I always ended up driving past it before finding parking because I’d get lost on the one way streets I rarely drove. We had dinner and talked and everything was fine.
Until she insisted we had across the streets for drinks. She frowned over my wrinkled nose.
“It’s not loud or too dark or overwhelming. It’s very subtle. Classy. You’ll like it. I promise.”
After continued prodding, I agreed to one drink, and we headed across the street. I remember sitting next to her at the bar drinking something with cranberry juice. It was bitter. As was the feeling of yet again being the not-so-pretty one. I had gained weight. Was firmly in my casually dressed phase of grad school. I felt plain next to Mandy in her skimpy little outfit and bouncing blonde curls. It was awkward and I let her know I was leaving after one drink.
She walked with me to our cars in the parking structure, and I tensed when she started to lecture. About how I presented myself. Clothes, hair, makeup, attitude.
“You need to get out there!” She said passionately. “Meet men. Date. I know you don’t want to end up alone. So you need to try. Just try.”
I turned to face her after reaching my car, unlocked the door, and narrowed my eyes. Then, trying mightily to stifle the venom I so desperately wanted to spew, I said something like, “I see it this way. I could try – make myself into something I’m not. Be uncomfortable and wonder if the man saw me or this person I was trying to create for him. Force myself into situations where I’d be watching the clock like I was in the bar. Do what you did – date, fall in love, hope that a man would eventually love me enough to keep me. And more power to you.” Then I shrugged, showing I didn’t believe it.
“But, Mandy? We’re both going home alone. I don’t envy you the dates – I don’t want them. I want to work, do research, figure out my professional future. I know you’re going a different direction, but for now? We’re in the same spot. All those broken hearts haven’t landed you ahead. So I’m out. I’ll do it my way.”
Years and maybe three emails later, she lives on the west coast and I’m here in the south. Neither of us married, both of us trying to figure out what to do to earn money. I suspect she’ll find someone. She does, after all, try. And my efforts have been marked by fear. This terrible certainty that once he knows enough, he'll certainly opt out.
But I remember driving home that night – hurt, angry and somehow hopeless. So, as I’m fond of doing, I talked to myself. Said firmly that I wouldn’t settle – I’d rather be alone than with someone who doesn’t think I’m wonderful. Then quietly found my way through a city I now find myself missing dearly to my first floor apartment and puppy. I cuddled next to her on the couch that night and somehow knew that I wasn’t going to find anyone there. That apartment would belong to us alone. And while there were visitors, there was nobody I wanted to stay.
I had higher hopes for this house. A bed that’s certainly big enough to share. Plenty of space to co-exist with someone peacefully, I thought hopefully as I moved in and put things away. Had this really good fantasy set in my guest room. Could picture someone here in my living room while we watched TV. That mental image has been gently pushed away. It’s not happening here. I don’t go in my guest room anymore – the door is kept closed and I didn’t realize exactly why until I refused to sleep there last time my parents visited. I just know. And age and hope and optimism have nothing to do with it somehow.
Then – poor, younger Katie in grad school – and now. It feels remarkably similar. And each time I feel this way, I see how my future will be. Wondering why I feel sad and realizing that it’s because I’m alone. The hope hurts and the mental image slipped away. I’d like very much to be wrong. I just don’t think I am.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Um, so...
I could write more about how - in all likelihood - I'll end up alone. But that will require me getting all dramatic and depressed, and I don't feel like it right now.
The lawn is mowed, and groceries were purchased - I just had a delightful salad. I redid my template out of boredom. It's severe, I think. I wanted something elegant and simple and I do enjoy black and white. I think I like the graphics - the leaves are complex but work with the jellyfish nicely. But, well, the contrast - especially to the cheerful green with the flowers - is stark. I had the titles in red, but I recoiled when I viewed the page.
"Why are you angry, blog?" I asked softly, and changed the colors to something a bit softer. Unfortunately, I'm not having strong opinions about much of anything this evening. So I'll see how I feel about the new graphics tomorrow. The green might make a quick return.
Other than that? Nothing much is happening today, which is fine. But I've fallen into the 'blah' mood that refuses to budge for any sort of decent blog entry. There's always tomorrow.
The lawn is mowed, and groceries were purchased - I just had a delightful salad. I redid my template out of boredom. It's severe, I think. I wanted something elegant and simple and I do enjoy black and white. I think I like the graphics - the leaves are complex but work with the jellyfish nicely. But, well, the contrast - especially to the cheerful green with the flowers - is stark. I had the titles in red, but I recoiled when I viewed the page.
"Why are you angry, blog?" I asked softly, and changed the colors to something a bit softer. Unfortunately, I'm not having strong opinions about much of anything this evening. So I'll see how I feel about the new graphics tomorrow. The green might make a quick return.
Other than that? Nothing much is happening today, which is fine. But I've fallen into the 'blah' mood that refuses to budge for any sort of decent blog entry. There's always tomorrow.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Football, Greek food and my lovely day
I’m of two minds when it comes to getting over something sad. And whether we’re talking about loss or loneliness – neither a very cheerful topic – distractions seem like a good idea. Be busy and occupied with other thoughts so I can't dwell upon sadness that at times seems overwhelming. The problem I have with this is that the sadness still comes – sharply surprising me at odd moments, and the pain catches me off guard. But at least there’s other stuff to talk about. Distractions are helpful and help with the whole time thing.
So! Today there was football with my Unnamed Friend, which was … good, I guess. First, my team is, um, not so talented. I found myself laughing more than once. "And there's another flag!" turned to "For crying out loud." I did comment to my Unnamed Friend that I liked sporting events in the south. Rabid loyalty for the team mixed with a certain politeness when trying to scoot in front of people on the bleachers. Uncivilized seating – bleachers. I don’t enjoy it. Then again, I’m not sure how polite the little blonde woman was when she screamed at the referee that he should go back to the farm animals (he either was like the pigs or liked to do things with the pigs – I’m not sure. Neither is very nice though.) There is, however, something delightful to me about hearing vile threats and lengthy insults shouted in the drawl that can otherwise be so sweet.
After I was sure I was getting burned on my right side (my face isn’t as bad as I feared, but my arm is much worse), I nodded when my Unnamed Friend asked again if my complaints of excessive heat, discomfort or hunger meant I wanted to leave. Carefully carrying my souvenir cup in one hand while my little blue purse (it matched my flip flops!) was tucked under the other arm, we headed back across campus then to a Farmers Market.
“It’s an actual structure!” I exclaimed upon seeing it, my initial ‘eh’ attitude fading when I saw the pretty building instead of scattered stands placed outside. I coveted the huge mum plants, but decided against them. I bragged about my flowers – how they’re filling in the entire bed and growing so tall though I didn't plant them – until my Unnamed Friend asked if they were weeds.
I paused, considered then shrugged. I guess they might be weeds, but we’ve already covered my thoughts on that. If the weeds are pretty, they may grow in my flower beds. I just want flowers, and my pretty orange/purple/pink/white mix is as pretty as the purple plant I liked before. Then I smiled, thinking of how I spent time earlier today pruning my three bushes, and pulling weeds from around my pretty flowers.
“I wonder if the neighbors think I’m weird. Out there every weekend, weeding around my weeds.”
I was leery of the Greek stand – incredibly hungry, but unsure of the quality of our proposed lunch. But it was busy, so I comforted myself with the thought that it should at least be OK.
It was the most fantastic food I’ve had in a long time. I ate quickly so that I could consume as much as possible before getting full, then continued to eat until I was slightly ill. Then I had my piece of baklava and felt miserable. But the food was wonderful – I just got too excited and ate too much of it.
The excessive fullness prohibited me from wanting any of the produce we revisited before leaving, and made the oriental market experience slightly surreal. Foreign languages printed and spoken, so much tea, gross pictures, an overwhelming corner of incense. It did serve as a contrast to my experience in Japan. When I was there, I was hungry but grossed out by the offerings. This time I was stuffed, but could imagine some mild interest in the international food had the thought of any food not been somewhat revolting.
I did buy 3 blush pears before leaving – it seemed wrong to leave without any produce at all when I was so pleased by the market in general.
After about an hour on her couch, I traded a wonderful blood orange soda/tequila drink (that she made weak for me! Such a good Unnamed Friend.) and a gorgeous, small cat in an apartment closer to town for my 52 pound dog and a glass of Chardonnay (oh, yes, I’m tipsy now.) in my house outside town. They appeared to have reopened the only large road out here – the parade must have been completed while I was off at the game or market or Unnamed Friend’s apartment. I hope it was a good parade for the folks who lined the sides of the street as I drove off this morning. I enjoyed seeing the man and his grandson on the bright green tractor as they waited to start, so perhaps everyone else did too.
I have more thoughts on the post from last night. I appreciate the comments and will consider them further. Later. For now, I’m tired from a very nice day. I’m quite pleased I’ve found a friend who lives in my current location. Greek food is amazing, though it’s in an inconvenient location. My football seats aren’t bad, and perhaps eventually I’ll figure out if the officials are pigs, or if they just really like them. I’m a little tipsy too, and some subjects call for sober reflection. But there are days of silly fun among the ones filled with work and worry. It’s important to remember those, I think. So the time I took to write this all down (hoping all the while it’s coherent) might have been well spent.
So! Today there was football with my Unnamed Friend, which was … good, I guess. First, my team is, um, not so talented. I found myself laughing more than once. "And there's another flag!" turned to "For crying out loud." I did comment to my Unnamed Friend that I liked sporting events in the south. Rabid loyalty for the team mixed with a certain politeness when trying to scoot in front of people on the bleachers. Uncivilized seating – bleachers. I don’t enjoy it. Then again, I’m not sure how polite the little blonde woman was when she screamed at the referee that he should go back to the farm animals (he either was like the pigs or liked to do things with the pigs – I’m not sure. Neither is very nice though.) There is, however, something delightful to me about hearing vile threats and lengthy insults shouted in the drawl that can otherwise be so sweet.
After I was sure I was getting burned on my right side (my face isn’t as bad as I feared, but my arm is much worse), I nodded when my Unnamed Friend asked again if my complaints of excessive heat, discomfort or hunger meant I wanted to leave. Carefully carrying my souvenir cup in one hand while my little blue purse (it matched my flip flops!) was tucked under the other arm, we headed back across campus then to a Farmers Market.
“It’s an actual structure!” I exclaimed upon seeing it, my initial ‘eh’ attitude fading when I saw the pretty building instead of scattered stands placed outside. I coveted the huge mum plants, but decided against them. I bragged about my flowers – how they’re filling in the entire bed and growing so tall though I didn't plant them – until my Unnamed Friend asked if they were weeds.
I paused, considered then shrugged. I guess they might be weeds, but we’ve already covered my thoughts on that. If the weeds are pretty, they may grow in my flower beds. I just want flowers, and my pretty orange/purple/pink/white mix is as pretty as the purple plant I liked before. Then I smiled, thinking of how I spent time earlier today pruning my three bushes, and pulling weeds from around my pretty flowers.
“I wonder if the neighbors think I’m weird. Out there every weekend, weeding around my weeds.”
I was leery of the Greek stand – incredibly hungry, but unsure of the quality of our proposed lunch. But it was busy, so I comforted myself with the thought that it should at least be OK.
It was the most fantastic food I’ve had in a long time. I ate quickly so that I could consume as much as possible before getting full, then continued to eat until I was slightly ill. Then I had my piece of baklava and felt miserable. But the food was wonderful – I just got too excited and ate too much of it.
The excessive fullness prohibited me from wanting any of the produce we revisited before leaving, and made the oriental market experience slightly surreal. Foreign languages printed and spoken, so much tea, gross pictures, an overwhelming corner of incense. It did serve as a contrast to my experience in Japan. When I was there, I was hungry but grossed out by the offerings. This time I was stuffed, but could imagine some mild interest in the international food had the thought of any food not been somewhat revolting.
I did buy 3 blush pears before leaving – it seemed wrong to leave without any produce at all when I was so pleased by the market in general.
After about an hour on her couch, I traded a wonderful blood orange soda/tequila drink (that she made weak for me! Such a good Unnamed Friend.) and a gorgeous, small cat in an apartment closer to town for my 52 pound dog and a glass of Chardonnay (oh, yes, I’m tipsy now.) in my house outside town. They appeared to have reopened the only large road out here – the parade must have been completed while I was off at the game or market or Unnamed Friend’s apartment. I hope it was a good parade for the folks who lined the sides of the street as I drove off this morning. I enjoyed seeing the man and his grandson on the bright green tractor as they waited to start, so perhaps everyone else did too.
I have more thoughts on the post from last night. I appreciate the comments and will consider them further. Later. For now, I’m tired from a very nice day. I’m quite pleased I’ve found a friend who lives in my current location. Greek food is amazing, though it’s in an inconvenient location. My football seats aren’t bad, and perhaps eventually I’ll figure out if the officials are pigs, or if they just really like them. I’m a little tipsy too, and some subjects call for sober reflection. But there are days of silly fun among the ones filled with work and worry. It’s important to remember those, I think. So the time I took to write this all down (hoping all the while it’s coherent) might have been well spent.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Eh.
I'm feeling a bit blah tonight. Sad, though I know it's silly. I look around and see devastating pain. People - even in my own life - have died. There are those suffering though illnesses that require strength I can't even imagine. Some lack the resources to provide for their families. And yet I, comfortably cuddled on my loveseat in the house I bought, suffer only from loss of hope. I think that's what bothers me at the moment. I don't think I believe I'm going to find anyone to love. It just doesn't make sense that it would happen. And while it's very much not OK, I'm tired of battling disappointment. At some point, isn't it better to just accept what is rather than throwing energy after a futile pursuit? I am, of course, aware that it's a phase. I'm tired and sad and I don't want to think about doing this again. I'll bounce back.
I'm refusing to wallow for too long though - I've spent so much of the past few months being depressed. Wasting time. I've enjoyed the cheer of the past few days - implementing The Plan has been quite helpful. I'm meeting my Unnamed Friend tomorrow for football (not sure if she was guilted into it by my enthusiasm or the irresistible need to support The Plan) and am looking forward to the day. I mowed my lawn tonight - that always makes me happy. The weather is cooler. I received congratulatory emails from my boss and another mentor after receiving some funding earlier this week. That was nice. It's going well.
Here's the thing. Remember Violet? I adore the woman - think she's fantastic. She's also adopting a little boy - he should be arriving soon. I was telling Carrie about it and she noted that she'd very much like to consider adopting at some point. I agreed - I'm crazy about toddlers (they can talk and are less fragile), but am awkward and weird around babies (What if I hurt them? And they do smell funny. I feel terribly guilty for moving away rather than toward the tiny creatures, but honestly. I get very nervous.) - so adoption would be a consideration for me.
"It's great that she's doing it on her own." Carrie commented. And tired from a day at Disney World, I just stared out the window for a moment before responding.
"It was time." I said simply, thinking sadly to a day I might say the same for myself. Carrie must have been sleepy herself because she didn't reply.
So I continued.
"It's not guaranteed that you find someone. Life isn't always fair. With jobs or love or children. You can work all you want - deserve something more than anyone you know - and still not get to your goal. There are amazing women who end up alone. I've met some. It's chilling, honestly, because if they can't figure this out, there's no way in hell I'm going to.
"So," I concluded, "it seems the smart thing to do is exactly what Violet did. You wait for as long as you can justify - try to date, give over to someone who ends up not wanting you, try to settle for someone who just isn't right - then you decide it's time. You're getting older. Love - in the romantic, wonderful, keep-him-forever sense - isn't going to happen for you. And you want a child - I understand that desire very well (even with my "I'd rather not hold that baby. Thanks." attitude) - so you call those romantic hopes off and move on."
"She's not moving on!" Carrie protested. "She can still find someone to love! She's just not waiting for him to start her family."
"No." I said, laughing a little and shaking my head at her because I don't see it that way. "She's done. It's not going to happen. She found the baby alone. She'll name him and take care of him and raise him. Alone. She's not looking anymore. Game over. It would have been nice, but it's not realistic anymore for her. She's moving on."
"She could still find someone!" Carrie insisted, and I looked at her with raised eyebrows.
"How the hell do you figure?" I demanded, starting to get irritated. "She's not willing to settle - she wants someone amazing, and if he doesn't come along, she's fine on her own. So why - after she's gotten older, settled into a single lifestyle, adopted a baby - do you think a man is going to come along when she's not even open to meeting him and sweep her off her feet? It doesn't make sense. She's done with that phase and is going to the next one. I think that's logical and smart. It's exactly what I plan to do."
"Just give up?" She asked, irritated herself. This is the point where we start to act like spoiled terriers and snap at each other.
"Yes. There's only so much of life that I can mourn for something that isn't going to happen. Only so many years I can justify spending searching for a man I can love who will love me back. Then I'll make a decision - close that part of my heart off, let it heal, then turn my attention to the other parts of my heart that are ready to love. Figure out how I want to have a child. And I won't look anymore because I'll have moved on."
"I think that's sad." She said.
"Of course it is." I sighed. Then I nodded and blinked back tears because it is sad. To look at what I wanted - what I still hope for - and acknowledge that if it doesn't happen for some women, I could easily be one of them. It's quite painful. And unless you're willing to date and marry me, there's limited comfort you can offer. Because you don't know that I won't be like Violet. Pretty, smart, successful. Warm, funny, sweet. And alone.
The comfort in this situation does not lie in platitudes - nobody can be sure I'll find someone, though it's certainly sweet if you're thinking I likely will. That someone should love me because I have good qualities. Because I want to find him so very much. It's not always fair, and there are certainly no guarantees. And there are worse things than staying single - I absolutely understand that.
The comfort is that you can still be successful - find people who love you as friends and family. Be content with being able to roll around freely as you sleep when you'd rather be bumping into someone and tugging to get enough blanket. Deal with the stress and joy of adopting all by yourself - basking in that excitement and happiness. Buying a house and feeling pleased every time I mow the lawn because this is mine. But I remember moving in - hoping I'd repeat the process with a partner sometime in the future. Have someone to make faces at when Dad needed to make one more trip to Lowes. Share the work and exhaustion rather than facing what sometimes seems like overwhelming responsibility on my own.
At some point though, it seems to me that I can decide to enjoy what I have - and I have a considerable amount for which to be supremely grateful - or I can continue to mourn what I might not ever receive. For now? I miss the hope - the giddy thought that if he likes me then maybe it will work! And if not, if I somehow captured the attention of someone so wonderful, then I should be able to find someone equally amazing later on!
I commented - I think for Dryden (yep, on this post) "My overall thought is that - in your position - I'd try to buy into the belief that things work out in the end. It may not be true, but at least there's some comfort in the present moment." And I do believe that's the way to go - assume that life is going to go your way, and live with that comfort and happiness.
But at some moments, when it becomes obvious that - while things are going to be OK and will work out in the end - you're not going to get what you wanted in the way you wanted, isn't it best to prepare yourself? For me to know I'll do pretty well on my own? To look ahead, think that I have a lot of time before I need to move on myself, but start resolving myself to the fact that it very well might come down to that?
"I don't like that you see it that way." Carrie said, setting her mouth in displeasure.
"I don't know that I do either." I said with a shrug, looking out the window and watching the world go by. "But I think that's just how it is."
And with a heavy sigh, I'll leave it at that.
I'm refusing to wallow for too long though - I've spent so much of the past few months being depressed. Wasting time. I've enjoyed the cheer of the past few days - implementing The Plan has been quite helpful. I'm meeting my Unnamed Friend tomorrow for football (not sure if she was guilted into it by my enthusiasm or the irresistible need to support The Plan) and am looking forward to the day. I mowed my lawn tonight - that always makes me happy. The weather is cooler. I received congratulatory emails from my boss and another mentor after receiving some funding earlier this week. That was nice. It's going well.
Here's the thing. Remember Violet? I adore the woman - think she's fantastic. She's also adopting a little boy - he should be arriving soon. I was telling Carrie about it and she noted that she'd very much like to consider adopting at some point. I agreed - I'm crazy about toddlers (they can talk and are less fragile), but am awkward and weird around babies (What if I hurt them? And they do smell funny. I feel terribly guilty for moving away rather than toward the tiny creatures, but honestly. I get very nervous.) - so adoption would be a consideration for me.
"It's great that she's doing it on her own." Carrie commented. And tired from a day at Disney World, I just stared out the window for a moment before responding.
"It was time." I said simply, thinking sadly to a day I might say the same for myself. Carrie must have been sleepy herself because she didn't reply.
So I continued.
"It's not guaranteed that you find someone. Life isn't always fair. With jobs or love or children. You can work all you want - deserve something more than anyone you know - and still not get to your goal. There are amazing women who end up alone. I've met some. It's chilling, honestly, because if they can't figure this out, there's no way in hell I'm going to.
"So," I concluded, "it seems the smart thing to do is exactly what Violet did. You wait for as long as you can justify - try to date, give over to someone who ends up not wanting you, try to settle for someone who just isn't right - then you decide it's time. You're getting older. Love - in the romantic, wonderful, keep-him-forever sense - isn't going to happen for you. And you want a child - I understand that desire very well (even with my "I'd rather not hold that baby. Thanks." attitude) - so you call those romantic hopes off and move on."
"She's not moving on!" Carrie protested. "She can still find someone to love! She's just not waiting for him to start her family."
"No." I said, laughing a little and shaking my head at her because I don't see it that way. "She's done. It's not going to happen. She found the baby alone. She'll name him and take care of him and raise him. Alone. She's not looking anymore. Game over. It would have been nice, but it's not realistic anymore for her. She's moving on."
"She could still find someone!" Carrie insisted, and I looked at her with raised eyebrows.
"How the hell do you figure?" I demanded, starting to get irritated. "She's not willing to settle - she wants someone amazing, and if he doesn't come along, she's fine on her own. So why - after she's gotten older, settled into a single lifestyle, adopted a baby - do you think a man is going to come along when she's not even open to meeting him and sweep her off her feet? It doesn't make sense. She's done with that phase and is going to the next one. I think that's logical and smart. It's exactly what I plan to do."
"Just give up?" She asked, irritated herself. This is the point where we start to act like spoiled terriers and snap at each other.
"Yes. There's only so much of life that I can mourn for something that isn't going to happen. Only so many years I can justify spending searching for a man I can love who will love me back. Then I'll make a decision - close that part of my heart off, let it heal, then turn my attention to the other parts of my heart that are ready to love. Figure out how I want to have a child. And I won't look anymore because I'll have moved on."
"I think that's sad." She said.
"Of course it is." I sighed. Then I nodded and blinked back tears because it is sad. To look at what I wanted - what I still hope for - and acknowledge that if it doesn't happen for some women, I could easily be one of them. It's quite painful. And unless you're willing to date and marry me, there's limited comfort you can offer. Because you don't know that I won't be like Violet. Pretty, smart, successful. Warm, funny, sweet. And alone.
The comfort in this situation does not lie in platitudes - nobody can be sure I'll find someone, though it's certainly sweet if you're thinking I likely will. That someone should love me because I have good qualities. Because I want to find him so very much. It's not always fair, and there are certainly no guarantees. And there are worse things than staying single - I absolutely understand that.
The comfort is that you can still be successful - find people who love you as friends and family. Be content with being able to roll around freely as you sleep when you'd rather be bumping into someone and tugging to get enough blanket. Deal with the stress and joy of adopting all by yourself - basking in that excitement and happiness. Buying a house and feeling pleased every time I mow the lawn because this is mine. But I remember moving in - hoping I'd repeat the process with a partner sometime in the future. Have someone to make faces at when Dad needed to make one more trip to Lowes. Share the work and exhaustion rather than facing what sometimes seems like overwhelming responsibility on my own.
At some point though, it seems to me that I can decide to enjoy what I have - and I have a considerable amount for which to be supremely grateful - or I can continue to mourn what I might not ever receive. For now? I miss the hope - the giddy thought that if he likes me then maybe it will work! And if not, if I somehow captured the attention of someone so wonderful, then I should be able to find someone equally amazing later on!
I commented - I think for Dryden (yep, on this post) "My overall thought is that - in your position - I'd try to buy into the belief that things work out in the end. It may not be true, but at least there's some comfort in the present moment." And I do believe that's the way to go - assume that life is going to go your way, and live with that comfort and happiness.
But at some moments, when it becomes obvious that - while things are going to be OK and will work out in the end - you're not going to get what you wanted in the way you wanted, isn't it best to prepare yourself? For me to know I'll do pretty well on my own? To look ahead, think that I have a lot of time before I need to move on myself, but start resolving myself to the fact that it very well might come down to that?
"I don't like that you see it that way." Carrie said, setting her mouth in displeasure.
"I don't know that I do either." I said with a shrug, looking out the window and watching the world go by. "But I think that's just how it is."
And with a heavy sigh, I'll leave it at that.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Error: Out of Memory
Of all the excuses that can be used when you’ve avoided doing something – returning a phone call, responding to email, making plans to see a person – I have one that I strongly dislike hearing. Now I cancel plans and avoid people more than most, I guess. I get depressed or am overly self-centered. Just don’t feel like talking. So I’ve used many excuses myself and don't blame people for using the one I hate. It's not you, folks. It's me.
Why did I think of it? Are you ready for a programming story?
I did some work on Project H today – the time-consuming yet difficult part ended up being easy. Well, it was easy after I figured out how to fix a problem. Let’s see if I can tell you a bit about what I’m trying to do. There are these massive data matrices, and I think I’ve isolated the center of the most interesting information. To try to figure out what’s really going on, people have suggested that I create a series of spheres so that I have concentric rings in three dimensions that radiate outward from this center I can define. Through some sort of comparison of these 30 rings, I should be able to isolate the part of the data that’s most important.
The time-consuming but easy part was creating the spheres. Making empty datasets to match the original, then filling in values, clicking on points, checking to make sure everything was aligned properly. I did that for about 30 patients (that’s 900 spheres for those of you who didn’t feel like doing the math), then wrote a simple Matlab function that would give me the 30 histograms (per patient) that I needed. A few things needed to happen, so I decided to do it assembly line style.
To start, I need to have Matlab load the spheres. Then I wanted to know how big each sphere was (it did vary for complicated reasons. I’ll spare you that part), needed to reshape it, find nonzero voxels, make an initial histogram, then normalize it. Then that histogram waits for the next biggest sphere to go through the same process so we can subtract the two. And now we have a ring. We need 29 more.
Since it is a continuous process (sphere9-sphere8, then sphere10-sphere9, etc.), it made sense (to me, anyway) to go through groups of functions. Load all spheres. Then determine size of all spheres. Make all the histograms. Normalize all histograms. Then subtract. Lovely.
Except I tried to run that in Matlab and got to sphere 17 (of 30, remember?) and Matlab said no. Error: Out of Memory. Red text appears on the screen and the little “Busy” indicator in the corner goes away because I asked for too much. Dismayed, I stared at the screen yesterday and quit. Went to work, made my presentation (I got some money!) and decided I’d think about it this morning. Then I woke up and after my devotional time but before my walk (Oh, I still love The Plan. A lot.), I rewrote my code. The answer is obvious, after all.
What I want to do is only load what I’ll use right away. Then clear it so there’s room for new information. So I load sphere1, make it all neat, pretty and get it to final form, keep only that smaller, useful final piece of data, and erase the rest. Then there’s room for sphere2 to go through the same process. Matlab zips right through the data and spits out my histograms like a good little program.
What struck me – because this is a lot of mindless copying as I make my way through all the patient data – is that it might make a nice analogy. A sad one, but something I need to work through.
The truth is that we can only push ourselves so hard – can only ask so much of others. We have limited resources and are – in some sense – defined by those limitations. Some of us travel based upon how much money and vacation we can spare. Many of us live where we can find jobs that satisfy us rather than a great love for our geographical region. We share offices because there’s nothing else available. Deal with substandard software or equipment because we can’t afford better.
Choose people to love based on the amount of emotional energy we have to spare.
Or maybe that’s just me.
But as I get older, I already have people taking up space in my heart. And I don’t feel I’m able to give them the attention they deserve at times. I haven’t spoken to Rachel since she visited. Talked to Elle the following week, but not again recently. Carrie and I won’t see each other until next spring, and only then if we end up at the same conferences. M might visit me next year after an exam she needs to take in Kentucky. And I’m actually congratulating myself for actually doing in-person visits with 3 of the 4 women within the past year. I’m pleased I found time to spend with my family before coming home from my Florida trip. It just doesn’t fit in all that easily!
I love each of these people too much to discard them completely, so I’ve reduced them to some manageable form, then saved that. I used to help fix dinner and take turns with Brother drying dishes while Mom washed. Now, even when I'm home, we'll eat out or throw something together, then clean up as we find time around the Little One's schedule. Those talks with Mom are pushed aside. All that time I spent in undergrad listening to how a paper was graded unfairly or how this really cute boy smiled at her? Cleared. I have no idea how any of my girls are doing day to day. While the process seems normal and necessary, I also find it sad.
At some point, it’s a little like using people, isn’t it? My girls in undergrad – Rachel and Elle – were my first real friends. They knew me and loved me and offered this incredible sense of comfort and support. I, dazzled with gratitude that I found such amazing women to share living space with, showered them with affection and time spent listening, laughing, patting shoulders in sympathy, gasping with outrage when someone had wronged them.
Then I started grad school, and found myself making room for new friends, classes, research, my own apartment. Rachel and Elle got reduced and/or cleared in some normal but very real way. I find myself missing them, though there’s no way to incorporate them into my daily life now any more than there was in grad school. So is that it? I’m done? They were a sphere I needed at one point of the program, but now all I need is the final histogram? Push the rest aside so there’s room for new information to enter?
The problem – for me – with living alone for so long is that I’ve become a bit more selfish. Find I guard my time carefully. Decide to refuse social plans so that I can rest and relax at home. I love doing my yard work because it’s productive time I can spend alone with my thoughts. Yet I’ll sometimes scowl when my parents call to talk. Find myself wishing for a nap when the Little One asks for more Blue or Barney. It’s awful, but I get tired. Out of memory, basically. Something has to get shoved aside to make room for more work. Different friends. Implementing The Plan.
It seems, therefore, that I’d be understanding of getting pushed aside myself. Would be gracious and understanding because, after all, I count myself among the worst offenders.
So, the worst excuse you can give me? That makes me hurt though it’s completely honest and understandable?
“I’m just really busy.”
Because all I can wonder, upon hearing such a thing, is when I’ll find someone who wants to keep me. Who finds me so fascinating and charming that he’s willing to clear other things to make more room for me.
Even when I hear it from friends or colleagues, I remember I hearing the excuse from Gabe – despairing over why I couldn’t be more important to someone I considered so amazing. And now, over 7 years later, I still haven’t found it. The sphere that makes up Katie is easily reduced to a tiny blip or erased completely. It’s difficult – even with The Plan – to ignore that fact. To make my way through these data with my efficient little m-file and wonder why I can't find someone who wants to keep me.
Why did I think of it? Are you ready for a programming story?
I did some work on Project H today – the time-consuming yet difficult part ended up being easy. Well, it was easy after I figured out how to fix a problem. Let’s see if I can tell you a bit about what I’m trying to do. There are these massive data matrices, and I think I’ve isolated the center of the most interesting information. To try to figure out what’s really going on, people have suggested that I create a series of spheres so that I have concentric rings in three dimensions that radiate outward from this center I can define. Through some sort of comparison of these 30 rings, I should be able to isolate the part of the data that’s most important.
The time-consuming but easy part was creating the spheres. Making empty datasets to match the original, then filling in values, clicking on points, checking to make sure everything was aligned properly. I did that for about 30 patients (that’s 900 spheres for those of you who didn’t feel like doing the math), then wrote a simple Matlab function that would give me the 30 histograms (per patient) that I needed. A few things needed to happen, so I decided to do it assembly line style.
To start, I need to have Matlab load the spheres. Then I wanted to know how big each sphere was (it did vary for complicated reasons. I’ll spare you that part), needed to reshape it, find nonzero voxels, make an initial histogram, then normalize it. Then that histogram waits for the next biggest sphere to go through the same process so we can subtract the two. And now we have a ring. We need 29 more.
Since it is a continuous process (sphere9-sphere8, then sphere10-sphere9, etc.), it made sense (to me, anyway) to go through groups of functions. Load all spheres. Then determine size of all spheres. Make all the histograms. Normalize all histograms. Then subtract. Lovely.
Except I tried to run that in Matlab and got to sphere 17 (of 30, remember?) and Matlab said no. Error: Out of Memory. Red text appears on the screen and the little “Busy” indicator in the corner goes away because I asked for too much. Dismayed, I stared at the screen yesterday and quit. Went to work, made my presentation (I got some money!) and decided I’d think about it this morning. Then I woke up and after my devotional time but before my walk (Oh, I still love The Plan. A lot.), I rewrote my code. The answer is obvious, after all.
What I want to do is only load what I’ll use right away. Then clear it so there’s room for new information. So I load sphere1, make it all neat, pretty and get it to final form, keep only that smaller, useful final piece of data, and erase the rest. Then there’s room for sphere2 to go through the same process. Matlab zips right through the data and spits out my histograms like a good little program.
What struck me – because this is a lot of mindless copying as I make my way through all the patient data – is that it might make a nice analogy. A sad one, but something I need to work through.
The truth is that we can only push ourselves so hard – can only ask so much of others. We have limited resources and are – in some sense – defined by those limitations. Some of us travel based upon how much money and vacation we can spare. Many of us live where we can find jobs that satisfy us rather than a great love for our geographical region. We share offices because there’s nothing else available. Deal with substandard software or equipment because we can’t afford better.
Choose people to love based on the amount of emotional energy we have to spare.
Or maybe that’s just me.
But as I get older, I already have people taking up space in my heart. And I don’t feel I’m able to give them the attention they deserve at times. I haven’t spoken to Rachel since she visited. Talked to Elle the following week, but not again recently. Carrie and I won’t see each other until next spring, and only then if we end up at the same conferences. M might visit me next year after an exam she needs to take in Kentucky. And I’m actually congratulating myself for actually doing in-person visits with 3 of the 4 women within the past year. I’m pleased I found time to spend with my family before coming home from my Florida trip. It just doesn’t fit in all that easily!
I love each of these people too much to discard them completely, so I’ve reduced them to some manageable form, then saved that. I used to help fix dinner and take turns with Brother drying dishes while Mom washed. Now, even when I'm home, we'll eat out or throw something together, then clean up as we find time around the Little One's schedule. Those talks with Mom are pushed aside. All that time I spent in undergrad listening to how a paper was graded unfairly or how this really cute boy smiled at her? Cleared. I have no idea how any of my girls are doing day to day. While the process seems normal and necessary, I also find it sad.
At some point, it’s a little like using people, isn’t it? My girls in undergrad – Rachel and Elle – were my first real friends. They knew me and loved me and offered this incredible sense of comfort and support. I, dazzled with gratitude that I found such amazing women to share living space with, showered them with affection and time spent listening, laughing, patting shoulders in sympathy, gasping with outrage when someone had wronged them.
Then I started grad school, and found myself making room for new friends, classes, research, my own apartment. Rachel and Elle got reduced and/or cleared in some normal but very real way. I find myself missing them, though there’s no way to incorporate them into my daily life now any more than there was in grad school. So is that it? I’m done? They were a sphere I needed at one point of the program, but now all I need is the final histogram? Push the rest aside so there’s room for new information to enter?
The problem – for me – with living alone for so long is that I’ve become a bit more selfish. Find I guard my time carefully. Decide to refuse social plans so that I can rest and relax at home. I love doing my yard work because it’s productive time I can spend alone with my thoughts. Yet I’ll sometimes scowl when my parents call to talk. Find myself wishing for a nap when the Little One asks for more Blue or Barney. It’s awful, but I get tired. Out of memory, basically. Something has to get shoved aside to make room for more work. Different friends. Implementing The Plan.
It seems, therefore, that I’d be understanding of getting pushed aside myself. Would be gracious and understanding because, after all, I count myself among the worst offenders.
So, the worst excuse you can give me? That makes me hurt though it’s completely honest and understandable?
“I’m just really busy.”
Because all I can wonder, upon hearing such a thing, is when I’ll find someone who wants to keep me. Who finds me so fascinating and charming that he’s willing to clear other things to make more room for me.
Even when I hear it from friends or colleagues, I remember I hearing the excuse from Gabe – despairing over why I couldn’t be more important to someone I considered so amazing. And now, over 7 years later, I still haven’t found it. The sphere that makes up Katie is easily reduced to a tiny blip or erased completely. It’s difficult – even with The Plan – to ignore that fact. To make my way through these data with my efficient little m-file and wonder why I can't find someone who wants to keep me.
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