100 words a day

I’m starting to think that I am more comfortable miserable than happy.  I’m unsettled by joy.  I’m always looking up, waiting for the sky to fall.   I understand misery.  I’m never anxious about it ending.

I gave it a shot, I really did.   I had a solid month and a half when I didn’t care about work, I was doing yoga regularly, meditating twice a day, and in love with everyone around me. Well, I wanted to be in love with everyone around me.

I’m amazed at how quickly I’ve fallen back into the grooves I’ve made over the years.

Tomorrow it will be nine months since I began. Which means that if I was having sex instead of writing, then tomorrow I’d have be having a baby*.  Technically that means that I am 75% done.  I should feel relieved that I am well over half-way through, but I’m trying not to focus on the finish line.  I’m in a bit of denial.   But September is still a long way off.

*Although, I think you’re really pregnant for 40 weeks or so. I don’t know why they always say 9 months.  I can do the math. Nine months, my foot.

It’s the beginning of the end for the two of us.   I know I’ve thought about parting ways over the years, but those were momentary lapses, it was never serious.   How could I leave you?  It’s been so long, and you’ve always been there for me.   You were always there to greet me at the airport and to pick me up after a long day of work.   I had you before I had anything.

It’s not that my family doesn’t like you, they just don’t understand you.   They don’t love the way you present yourself.  They think I deserve better.

I’ve never made a list of things I wanted to do by the time I reached age X.  Goal-setting has never been my forte.

But now, I am ambling towards a fairly significant milestone and I’m being asked about what I’ve always wanted to do.

Skydiving immediately comes to mind.  So does driving cross-country.   But what can be done, affordably, within a weekend (or a day), without endangering my friends’ lives?

Dinner seems too mundane.  The theater is not monumental enough.  A spa day is unexciting.  Atlantic City is no substitute for Vegas.

I’d rather jump out of a plane.

I like to pretend there are only two types of people in the world, based on opposing preferences.  Are you an Iliad person? Or an Odyssey?  It’s foolish, sure, but always interesting.

In the water vs. mountain debate, there was never a question of where my loyalty lies. I grew up on a bay.  My across-the-street-neighbors live on the water.  The other neighborhood was “the other peninsula.”  The beach was a 15 minute drive away.  Although I don’t need to swim, I need to be around water.

It’s the only place where I can sit still for hours on end.

When I was little someone suggested to my mom that I should be tested.  I wasn’t speaking. Irritated and unnerved, my mother mentioned it to the doctor the next time I had an appointment. The doctor looked at me, a healthy and happy little girl, smiled, then said to my mother, “She doesn’t talk because she doesn’t have to.”

This explanation made no sense to my mother and she basically said as much.  He looked at me and asked, “Stacy, who’s that?” while pointing to my mother.

“That’s Mommy!” my brother immediately replied.

Click. I didn’t undergo any further testing.

Anyone who has lived in DC can attest to the fact that being here on Memorial Day weekend is a special experience.   It seems as if every tourist comes equipped with their own motorcycle.   A palpable energy descends on our fair town.

Last year I had friends visiting me and we headed downtown.  The multitudes were out; every monument was crowded.   As I walked along the Vietnam Wall, I saw many tough, scary looking men, adorned in tattoos and leather, staring at very specific spots on the black granite.   Many of them cried, some sobbed.   All of them were mesmerized.

Here’s the thing about moving forward: you leave people behind.  It’s not intentional, but it is an inevitable byproduct.  When you do reconnect with the familiar faces, it’s hard to even imagine being in their shoes.  Even though you were standing in them just a few months ago.  In such a short time so much can change.  Even though it’s gradual, and unnoticeable at the time.  But once you realize, the difference is startling.

That’s when you test the mettle of your relationships.  Do you

It’s a bit of a cliche to say that we all have demons, to consider an exorcism to rid ourselves of parts that we don’t like.   But maybe there’s something very real about our subconscious, almost corporeal.  I’m usually a very positive person, but I have a vicious, abusive tyrant who, though dormant most of the time, can rear her ugly head and eviscerate me in seconds.  You can’t imagine the vitriol that I hear in my head sometimes.

Maybe I just am in need of a little rewiring.  I guess I am going to find out on June 2^nd.

I’ve been painting again.  I’ve been fairly quiet about it.  I worry my reemerging creative streak is too fragile to discuss. I’m trying not to think past the current painting but it’s hard for me not to fast forward:  what to do with it, where to show it, how to sell it, etc.  But then I get back to where I started, or more accurately, where I stopped.

I can’t help but ruminate over the grander contexts of the paintings.  It’s a semi-paralyzing thought process, but I never wanted to be an artist only in my mind.  No artist does.

I spent the last eight years working with alpha dogs. They bared their teeth in meetings, declared everything with absolute certainty, and they never, ever, let me see them sweat.

I don’t know if they rubbed off on me, or if I just fit in because of who I am, but I am at ease in that environment. I adore competence and I don’t mind if you flaunt it.

My new habitat is much more diverse. The meek sit among the mountains. I have to admit, I’m a little bit lost without the bravado. Where’s the arrogance? Where’s the BS?

All in all, the visit was fine.  Fine.  It was similar to the other ones in that they’re not as awkward as I anticipated, but they all have small moments of poignancy.

He really enjoyed seeing my art.  He stood in awe before each one, taking them in individually. That’s ten years of paintings that he’s never seen in person,

At one point when my alma mater came up in conversation, he paused and said, “We’ve never really discussed this, but what did you think of your time at Northwestern?”

It’s a valid question, but it’s almost a decade late.

Today I felt sicker than I have in a long time.  Coincidence? No way.

I woke up at 7:30 this morning, meditated until 8, and then cleaned my apartment until about 3.  (I am an incredibly inefficient cleaner, and my apartment was a wreck).

I had planned on going for a run, but I had a mild stomach ache for most of the morning.  Then came the borderline migraine.  At some point after my father arrived, I excused myself to go the bathroom to chug some liquid Tylenol.  The mind can lie to itself, but the body will get revenge.

I’d like to say I’m looking forward to tomorrow. But I’m not. I’m terrified. People have offered to help but don’t know what they can do. Thoughts of my father instantly transport me ten years back when I wore opaque sunglasses to avoid seeing the looks of pity from friends with no words. I hid then and I can feel myself beginning to hide now.

Tomorrow will come and go, I know. I wish that seeing him represented promise and hope, but it just reminds of what I don’t have.

And I’m so damn sick of going through this alone.

I’ve been thinking about perfect moments.  Those moments, frozen in time, always bring a smile with them when they are dusted off and brought out of your mental cellar.  Those moments, if scripted, would be too good to be believable.

They’re rare.  They’re beautiful. And unfortunately, they’re unplannable.  Their serendipitous nature is, of course, part of their brilliance.

I want more of these moments.  I’m seeking them out.  I know you can’t create them, they just happen.   So I am going out and do my best to increase my chances.

Those moments never happen when I’m sitting on my couch.

It was one of those nights when the only thing that can heal is Journey.  And possibly Chicago.  Lately I’ve been spending more waking hours in my car than in my apartment and as much as I try to preserve my game face, I think mine’s starting to slip.   Yesterday I found myself fighting the urge to cry after spending two hours in my car.

Today I was just looking forward to coming home and having nothing to do.  I got home after a mildly torturous commute, threw some dinner in the microwave, and pulled out the 80’s soft rock.

Who knew that memory retrieval would be so explosive?  I talked to a good friend mine yesterday about it and she instantly relayed a story about a guy who literally died when his memory of a traumatic event was restored.  Literally Died, instant heart attack.

I do understand the possibility and danger of living too much in the past.  And I want to move on.  I think it’s healthy to let go. I just feel so unarmed in certain situations.  I never know when the past will be wielded like a weapon, and I don’t like being a sitting duck.

There are specific parts of my memory that are gone. My brain has excised them from my consciousness for fear of them contaminating the healthy, happier parts.  The problem is, I don’t know how much of I’ve lost.  I can narrow the timeframe down to a two-year time period, but that’s all I got.

If you realized that there’s some part of your past that your brain has deemed too harrowing to bring along on the trip, do you turn the car around and go back for it?  On this road of self-discovery I’m on, there really is no question.

This weekend I saw my niece for the first time in two months.  She’s almost two and her language skills have exploded in recent weeks.   She can now say my name and knows who I am.  This afternoon I was walking towards my grandmother’s apartment when she spotted me from eight stories up on the balcony.  Her little hands gripped the railing while she was jumping, shouting, “Hi Tacy!” as loud as she could.  Without skipping a beat, I, an adult with a normal sense of propriety, waved my arms wildly and yelled, “Hi Alex!” just as loudly in return.

I kept trying to say,  “I used a candle,” but candle kept coming out as crayon. Sure, I used crayons too but there was no novelty in that. I’ve used crayons for years, fire too, but the candle was the new secret weapon. I tried again: “I used a crayon.” No! No! No! I mean, I used a crayon.” Crud!

It’s what happens whenever I try to speak in a crowded room and I can’t quite tune out the other speakers. It’s like my brain tries to tune in to multiple radio stations and all I can hear is static.

Compassion for others shouldn’t be hard. And it’s not. Well, it’s not for strangers.  I can smile, wave hello very easily.  It’s the people I know that I’m having a harder time with. The friends who disappoint, the family members who press buttons with the persistence of a type A personality summoning a lazy elevator.  Strangers don’t hurt.

I don’t know how to fit anger in with this attempt at newfound patience and compassion.  Apparently the idea is that if I feel hurt, I’m to admit it, deal with it, and then let go of it.  Easier said than done.

It’s 11:30 on Thursday night.  I’m driving to New York tomorrow, it’s an hour past my bedtime, and I haven’t begun to pack yet.   Which bad decision shall I choose? Stay up even later and pack now or go to bed and commit to packing at 6:30 in the morning.

Of course, packing won’t take too long.  I’m not going to summer camp where the only way to get something I forgot was to send my parents a letter, then wait a week and a half  for the package to arrive.  It’s New York.  There’s a CVS on every corner.

That’s more like it.  I am neck deep in work and today I actually wondered where my afternoon went.  Lately I have known exactly where my afternoons have gone (huffingtonpost.com, tvsquad.com, nytimes.com, officetally.com), but today I almost hit the panic button.  Panic mode is my comfort zone.  Anything less than too much to do in too little time is completely boring. It’s not exciting unless it’s down to the wire and will-she-get-it-done-on-time-oh-yes-she-will!

Is it because that’s the work environment that I was reared in? Or is it more basic than that: is it the need to please and be needed?

I’m not working. I know. It’s back to the drafting table for me. I keep trying to add things to make me work, but now I’m all full and I’m still faulty.

I have to start subtracting. Describing myself as a creature of habit is an understatement of planetary proportions. Without my daily routine, I get Cranky. But with my habits and routine, plus a new often-larger-than-life commute, I can barely find time to waste it.

There’s one thing that could make it all better. But I’m not quite ready to say good-bye.

I need to turn off the television.

I felt like I never quite woke up today.   I ended up turning to my last-resort afternoon cup of coffee but it tasted so badly that I tossed it within minutes.  To make up for the mudwater, I indulged in a heavenly rice krispie treat. Ugh, too much sugar.  I should have just gone home.  And now there’s just one thing between me and sleep: one hundred measly words.  Of course today’s one of those days where nothing eventful happened.  No latent unsettling memories rising to the surface.  No funny anecdotes to share.

Nothing.

And now I get to sleep.

Her grandmother died and she didn’t call me.  She didn’t call anyone.  I told her it’s okay to ask for love and she told me to back off.

I sent her an email and didn’t hear back from her for weeks.  I told her I got worried and she told me she already had a mother.

I invited her to a friend’s birthday.  She said she’d go and then never showed up.   That was three weeks ago and I haven’t heard from her since.

To me, she’s missing- lost in action, but I know better than to look for her.

I’ve realized something about this lore that I’ve created: it’s fiction.  I have an origin myth for every quirky personality trait I have.  And they all make sense.  Except they’re not true.  The chronology isn’t right.

I’ve reasoned that fiscal sense was born from the divorce.  My mom was left with only social security to feed her in retirement while my dad walked away with his lavish government pension.   Then I remembered that I hoarded every cent I made from my job in high school.  Two years before my father left.  The story works, until you flesh out the details.

When I was sixteen I dated a boy for 4 days.  I’ll never forget what he said my problem was:

You don’t need anyone

I am sure I scoffed at the time.  And for many years later.

I don’t say things like “f*** you” or “shut up.”  My diamond-lined dagger is “I don’t need you.”   No one likes to hear it and it’s always my go-to retort.

Now, I look around at what I’ve built and I can’t help thinking that I proved myself right.  I don’t need anyone.  I can do it by myself.  I just don’t want to.

Take an hour and listen.

Take an hour and get enraged.

Take an hour and shake your head.

Take an hour and taste the bile that has filled your mouth.

Take an hour and reflect in shame.

Take an hour and be disgusted.

Take an hour and think of all of the lies we swallowed without chewing.

Take an hour and get inspired to fight.

Take an hour and try not to cry.

Take an hour and consider the deplorable disrespect this country has shown.

Take an hour and wonder when justice will be served.

Take an hour and listen.

This American Life: Habeas Schmabeas

All these years later and the smell of Eternity still has quite the effect on me. I was in the grocery store yesterday, wasting minutes before heading back to work, and someone, somewhere, walked by emanating the scent of my past loves*.

I was walking when I noticed it and I just stopped mid-stride. I stood there, just inhaling, for a while. I didn’t even pretend to be looking at whatever was before me on the shelf.  I wanted to relish that long lost familiar scent that for as long as I could.

*They both wore the Eternity for Men.

Every Sunday I catch up with a wise friend from my teenage-hood.  She’s the best sounding board I have and I wish I could carry her in my pocket to keep me sane from day to day.  She always has an unexpected spin for the melodramas I share that forces me see through a different lens.

This past weekend she reminded me that I can’t control other people or outcomes of situations any more than I can control the wind.  But what I can control is the story I tell, and the part I choose to play within that story.