The Waves

I feel like I'm drowning in my own life, and I can't see land. Every time I come up for air and feel like I just might make it, another wave comes over my head and pulls me down. And every time I have a little less hope that I will ever come back up again.

And yet, when I do break the surface, the sun is brighter every time.

My old school, to which I am in the process of reapplying, ignored me for two weeks and then decided to tell me that I missed a deadline and could not apply for this coming semester. This after an email from that very office telling me to have papers in "as soon as possible," but not mentioning any deadline.

So I went on an email rampage (politely, of course), sending messages to everybody from my advisor to Admissions to the president of the school. I got a call this afternoon from the director of Admissions, and I was hopeful - until she ran me all up and down and told me, in slightly better-disguised words, that I was lazy and demanding and this whole situation was my fault and I should never have dragged the president into it, blah blah blah. As I was reaching the point where I hoped she would tell me I was out of luck just to get her off the phone, she suddenly said that she was going to accept the paperwork anyway. Not because she wanted to, but because my advisor called me a "superstar" (this was said with terrible sarcasm) and that she "adores" my advisor (with no sarcasm at all, but the implication that I should feel guilty for doing this to a person she adores).

In the end, I won the battle, but came out actually wishing I hadn't. I HATE being critisized, especially in a situation where I felt I had no other choice. I feel now like I should have just given up when they told me to the first time and waited until next semester. I'm triumphant and couldn't possibly feel worse about it.

TMI Tuesday, Non-Sexual Edition

1. The three words that best describe you are adventurous, fun, and thoughtful.
2. The three words that best describe your life are chaotic, wild, and sweet.
3. Your three guilty pleasures are kinky sex, boots, and double-chocolate cookies. Though I don't feel very guilty about any of them.
4. The three places you would like to visit before you die are Hawaii, Japan, and Australia.
5. The three things you would like to do before you die are...nope, I'm gonna cut this down to one: lead a happy and fulfilling life!

TMI Tuesday #197

TMI Tuesday

1. Have you ever attended a group masturbation party? Same-sex or mixed?

Can't say's I ever have done that.

2. When masturbating, as you reach orgasm, do you continue to stimulate yourself without interruption, or do you stop and apply pressure until your spasms subside? Or?

Points for an original question! I keep going.

3. Have you ever video'ed yourself while masturbating (solo)? Where are they now?

No, I was too shy, though I do have a video of a significant other doing so.

4. Have you ever looked at porn online? Have you ever posted porn online?

Have definitely looked at/watched lots of it. While I've made porn, I'm not sure if it's actually been posted online (I'm not counting my home basement server).

5. Do you send/recieve dirty email jokes and pictures?

Text messages, yes! As far as jokes, I just tell them!

Bonus: Have you ever told someone they were good in bed when they weren't?

Yes, but it wasn't a malicious lie; I didn't know any better.

TMI Tuesday #195

I Hate You, Natalie...

...but damn, you're hot.

Faster, I Say!

Wow, I figured that after my last post saying I was alive, I wouldn't be causing so much worry to people as I apparently have been...apologies to those of you who've been concerned. I'm all right physically, nothing particularly unusual going on this week. The marks on my arm have nearly faded, though I'm wishing they would do so faster, because I'm going to have a sleepover with Wren tonight. I don't want to wear a long-sleeved shirt, as it's finally warm again, but I don't want her to see them either. She saw a slightly older scar two weeks ago and freaked out about that.

Mentally I'm not sure what to say about myself. During the days, for the most part I've been fine, keeping myself busy with a whole load of web design projects. There was only one afternoon where I started sinking again, but somehow I managed to shake it off and move on without lasting consequences.

At night, I've been slightly less myself. Two nights ago when we went to bed, Kevin fell asleep on my shoulder almost immediately, and I broke down into tears. I have no idea what triggered it, but what kept it going was missing my dad. At least that's a definable thing to cry about. It's amazing how difficult it is to stay still and silent while crying. While I was certainly imagining what I could be doing to myself with a razorblade, I didn't do anything about it, and eventually I fell asleep.

Mostly what's been happening to me at night though is simple insomnia. That's not usually my style, but it happens when I'm stressed about something, or when I have too many things on my mind, or when I just plain manage to screw up my sleep pattern. Some nights I go to bed and have trouble falling asleep, and other nights I fall right to sleep but wake up at six-thirty and just lie there. It turns out there are quite a lot of people and dogs who run by the window at that hour, and some of them talk surprisingly loudly. The neighborhood is such a completely different place that early in the morning.

But enough depressing crap - for once I actually have a genuinely entertaining story! Kevin and I are both troublemakers at heart (I know, you'd never have guessed), and we celebrated July 4th weekend by throwing firecrackers and setting off bottle rockets, which are illegal in this state. That just makes it all the more fun.

The arrangement was that I drove and he operated the lighter, and we terrorized our neighborhood and the surrounding countryside throwing M-30s into peoples' yards one night. The next night, intoxicated by our success, we set out again with fresh ammo. Having run through the bag of firecrackers, we moved on to the rockets, and Kevin showed me a trick that he and his friends used to do in high school...

Pull the car to the middle of the street. The passenger leans out and sets the rocket in the middle of the right lane, facing backwards. As soon as it's lit, the driver takes off, and if you look out the back window you can watch it shoot off down the street behind you.

The first one we set off on the street beside the river, and though it veered surprisingly sharply into the bushes, it was labeled a success. I drove back through the other end of town and crossed over the north-south route into a neighborhood we hadn't bothered yet. There was no one in sight for half a mile in any direction. In a nice open stretch where the houses were set far back from the road and mostly dark, I edged over to the left and stopped, and Kevin set out a rocket and flicked open the lighter. Still keeping a careful eye out, I saw no one anywhere...and then suddenly there were headlights behind us.

About to tell him to take the damn thing back in the car, I realized it was too late when I heard the distinctive and lovely sound of burning canon wick.

"Cars!" I said, just as he said, "Go!" I rammed the pedal to the floor as he slammed the door, and I watched in the rearview as the rocket lit up and shot down the road whistling, then careened into the weeds at the last second, just as the car was coming up on it. "Drive!" Kevin yelled. "Faster, faster!"

"I can't see!" I protested, looking alternately at the road in front of me and what I could now see was two cars behind. I was doing fifty, fifty-five, sixty in a thirty...and the cars were still catching up. They were too brightly lit and moving too fast to be other civilians, and panic started to surface as I realized we had just shot an illegal firework at a state trooper. Sorry, two state troopers.

Sixty, seventy, eighty, and they were still getting closer. With Kevin urging me on, I broke ninety, and then he said, "Turn turn turn! Left! Up there, over the bridge!" I was pretty sure the cops were too close not to see us, but I'm not too familiar with that end of town, so I did as I was told, burning out the back end and taking off. "Right at the end of the bridge, right now!" I whaled out another screeching turn and shot off down a significantly darker road, overshadowed with thick trees. We bounced as the road changed from pavement to dirt, and I hoped any potholes I encountered weren't too deep.

I pushed the car as fast as I dared, overdriving even my high beams, until Kevin said, "Ok, slow down." I didn't see lights behind me, but I wasn't convinced yet. After a few minutes we popped out on a paved road, and I realized we were nearly out of gas. We wound back into town by a convoluted back route and put a few dollars in the tank. I was shaking and laughing. We never did see those cops again.

Recovery

I remember parts of what happened last night after I finally got off the computer. More wine, more cutting, more bleeding. After using up all my drawing space between elbow and wrist, I moved up to my tricep and carved in DEEPER SOBER. It seemed the more drunk I got the more shallowly I cut and the less I bled, but I reversed that trend again with those words.

Kevin came home, left his things in the living room, and walked into the kitchen to greet me. It seemed to take him a minute to figure out what was going on...I was leaning against the stove, facing him, my left arm bleeding from shoulder to wrist, still clutching a bottle of wine in my right hand. I let it go without a struggle as he came alive again and ran to me.

"What happened?" he asked, grabbing my shoulders. "What did you do? What did you do?!"

I couldn't explain, just melted down into tears. I remember him telling me to sit down on the hassock, and him sitting on the chair facing me with a roll of paper towels and a plastic container full of water. He tried to clean my arm with wet paper towels, then realized it wasn't going to work and brought me upstairs. He washed off my arm in the shower, then got out a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

"This is going to sting," he told me, soaking another paper towel. I nodded numbly, then started to cry again as he rubbed it over my arm and into my open cuts. "Shh," he said, and the pain went away. He found a bandage bigger than any I've ever seen and taped it on my arm; it covered me from elbow to wrist. A smaller one covered the words on my upper arm.

Next thing I remember we were curled up together on the big squishy chair in the living room. The first part of the conversation is lost in the mists of alcohol, but after a while the room stopped spinning, and I was crying again. Kevin might have been too; I don't remember. We talked about my dad and my mom, about his parents, about things that happened to us when we were young and things that happened to us later in life, about how all of those things can shape who you are in so many different ways.

Although I've poured out much of my own story here, I don't feel right sharing what it was that happened to him...but it was one of the worst things that can happen to anyone. I knew about it already, but there were parts of the aftermath that he hadn't shared with me before. About the kid at school who found out and tortured him mercilessly for five years before Kevin finally snapped and beat him nearly to death.

It felt like hours that we spent curled up there while the world slowly came back to me. It probably was, because by the time we finally wandered into the kitchen to make mac 'n' cheese it was very late. Haven not eaten all day and being very hungover by then, I still managed to stuff down two bowls. At some point I grabbed a glass of water that was on the table and polished it off, then moved on to the container that had been intended to clean my arm and drank that too.

This morning I accompanied Kevin on his weekly work-trip across the state so that we could come back by way of a poker room. The poker room turned out to be closed, but I didn't mind. By that point I just wanted to be home so I could curl up on the couch and drink tea. I was actually grateful that it was chill and rainy today, because no one could question my decision to wear a long-sleeved shirt.

I'm Alive

Thank you Alan/Veda (I have no idea where I got that name!) for all of your caring messages yesterday and this morning. For anyone else who was worried, yes, I am still alive. The hangover is gone, and even my arm doesn't hurt right now, even given the remarkable amount of damage I did to it. I did not leave this blog or anything else open for Kevin to find.

Just like I said I would, I forgot most of what I wrote down here last night. I forgot most of what I said to Aiden, too...but what I do know is I got a "good morning" message from him this morning that somehow turned into something nasty.

Aiden:

I don't know what the fuck I did to piss you off, but I'm very sure I didn't say anything rude yesterday. You have absolutely no right to get mad at me for anything. I owe you nothing. "Call me if you give a damn?" I can't even give a damn about myself right now. I can't go on doing what we've been doing. I tried to tell you that before and you were too stubborn to listen, so now I'll tell you the way I clearly need to to get through your thick head: You can go fuck yourself.

Upon reading Aiden's brief blog update from yesterday, it seems he feels I stood him up. Of the small number of things that I remember of our conversation, I do remember telling him that I would make no plans because I was drunk and knew I would forget them. I agreed to talk to him if I woke up in time. That is NOT the same as making plans and then shafting them.

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. I am so drunk. How did I get here? I remember writing three previous entries and rereading them, but I don't remember what was in the last one. I keep trying to throw my life away. What happens now?

Drunk Rantings....

I'm not sure what else to call you, so I'll call you His. (My drunk mind tried to insist on Veda, but since I'm drunk and can't put a reason to that, I'll stick with the more logical for now.)

I've felt the pendulum for years now, and I believe in it. I know that tomorrow will be better. But I have this terrible fear that I can't talk myself out of, which insists that every time the pendulum swings, it swings a little farther, like a child being pushed on a swing by a parent. Yes, tomorrow may be a happier day than I've ever felt...but if that's true, then the next time I feel this way, I may kill myself. Or maybe it will be the time after that. Either way, the increasing swing is dangerous now and will be fatal at some point if I continue to believe in it.

I'm so drunk now that I'm going to stop referring to myself as "she," as I was in the last two posts. Third person does not convince smart people that I was just creating fiction, as I wanted them to think...I know you know it's me. I know you know it's me just as well as I do.

I talked to Aiden this afternoon. I can't tell you how long we chatted online, since alcohol makes it too hard to keep track of time, but I have the feeling it was a while...longer than I thought it was, certainly. I began by threatening to kick his ass if he came to my house to find me. He assured me that he wouldn't, and I believe that he won't, even thought most people would. It's not at all that he doesn't care about me. It's trust - he trusts me to at least keep myself alive until the next time we talk.

They say that if text changes in front of you, you are dreaming and not awake. What if you forget the text, but it has not changed? I know I'm not dreaming. I'm drunk. Yes, it's different from sober, and I may not be quite who I normally am...and I may not remember this tomorrow, or tonight, or even in thirty seconds. But from whatever it was I said, he trusts me to stay alive.

Interestlingly, so do I.

I've never been drunk by myself before. I know I said that, but I said it in the third person, and I feel the need to take responsibility. I really wonder what's going to happen when Kevin comes home. It's now 4:52 and he leaves work at 5:30, getting home around 5:45. Maybe he'll take me to the hospital. Maybe he'll get angry. Maybe he'll just cuddle me all night and tell me stories.

God, I can't even remember what I typed three sentences ago. I can spell, but that's about it. I will not remember this tomorrow. Or maybe I will and I'll deny it because I don't take responsibility for myself when I'm drunk.

A very small part of me is afraid Aiden's going to stop by here on his way home to check on me...but he said he wouldn't, and the larger part of me believes him. That means that I'm alone until Kevin is out of work. That's what I wanted, and it's also not what I wanted. I know I'm fucked up right now. I'm going to read this tomorrow and say, "What the fuck?" But when you can't feel your legs or your tongue, you know you're fucked up. I actually managed to find a bottle opener (which I didn't know we had when I was sober) and open a bottle of wine. Sure, I stabbed myself with the foil, but it's better than I thought I'd do. The only reason I'm bleeding is my razors, and not the foil.

Kevin has been IM'ing me on and off. He reminds me that I haven't eaten, and I remind myself that he will find me tonight...drunk...bleeding...completely fucked up. I wonder if I'll leave this blog open. Obviously he doesn't know about it, but if I'm drunk enough, he might find out. I've been faking it very well, because I know I can still type perfectly even when I've had so much alcohol. What's affected is not my abilities but my decision, and the most dangerous decision I might make (and then forget about until it's too late) is to let him find this blog. He knows about two of my blogs: the one that everyone including my mother follows, and the "private" one that I starting writing for him. He doesn't know about this one - or if he has, he's faked not knowing better than he ever has faked anything else.

Fuck. I'm not gonna remember a think when I'm sober. Apparently quality typing doesn't mean shit with me. I've known how to spell most of the English language since I was six, so I guess it makes sense that good spelling and grammar wouldn't be a reason to declare my own soberness.

I have to apologize to any of you who are actually reading this. Normally I don't do that; I figure that if you are forcing yourself through my rantings, it's of your own accord. But being drunk and knowing that I will be lucky to remember opening my computer tomorrow, I feel the need to apologize for putting you through what has probably been the most pointless blog post I have ever made. This is probably only for me, for me to read in the morning and say, "Oh shit, I did WHAT?"

Isn't that how lessons are learned? Like my experience at that wedding last week. I just reached for the bottle and missed. I know that means I should stop for today...but I want to pass out by the time Kevin gets home, and since I'm still sober, that means I need more alocohol.

Fuck.

How the BLOODY HELL did I get here?

I thank sincerely everyone who has been reading my escpapades. Thought this feels like a suicicde note somehow, I don't see how it would be, since I've lived through every freaky fucking episode of insanity I've had before this.

Then again, that's what happens, isn't it...You think you're fine. You think it can't happen to you. And then it does.

It's taking me longer and longer to fix what I'm typing to the point of leigibility. I don't know what's gonna happen when Kevin comes home and finds me drunk and bleeding, whether he's going to take me to the hospital, leave me, or try to talk me into sanity one more time. If you never hear from me again, it was option four: I died.

Otherwise, it was one of the others.

I can barely type anymore. I can tell you the band I'm listening to, but not the song. I can tell you what I'm wearing, but not what I'll think of this tomorrow. I'm so fucked up. So fucked up. So fucking fucked up. I'll survive this.

But then what?

I Can't Stay Fucking Sober Anymore

I'll go ahead and pour myself a drink
I really couldn't care less what you think
Well I don't have to listen now
Live this day down
If I can't feel a thing
You might as well save your goodbyes
We can give this train wreck one last ride
I'm gonna have to listen now
Live this day down
If I don't make things right
I'll tell you one last time

I don't wanna know it's over
So save your goodbye kiss
I don't wanna know it's over
Cause ignorance is bliss
I can hardly see
What's in front of me
Cause the vodka's running on empty
I can't stay sober
If it's over
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)
So save your goodbye kiss
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)

I woke up with my heartbeat in my head
I reached for the bottle by the bed
I saw your side was not slept in
Cold sheets again
Remind me of what you said
We need to take a break for a while
It's been so long since I smiled
I don't wanna listen now
Live this day down
With you so drunk and high
So I'll say goodbye

I don't wanna know it's over
So save your goodbye kiss
I don't want to know it's over
Cause ignorance is bliss
I can hardly see
What's in front of me
Cause the vodka's running on empty
I can't stay sober
If it's over

I don't wanna know it's over
So save your goodbye kiss
I don't wanna know it's over
Cause ignorance is bliss
Now I know I can't stay sober
Cause you left me here like this
I don't wanna know
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)
So save your goodbye kiss
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)
(I don't wanna know)
Cause ignorance is bliss
I can hardly see
What's in front of me
Cause the vodka's running on empty
I can't stay sober

Hinder, Bliss

I Know When It Ends

Coffee and booze is a strange combination. They say it makes for a "wide-awake drunk," whatever that means. All she knows is that she's energized with a mostly-empty bottle of wine in one hand.

Drinking by yourself means you're an alcoholic. She's known that for years, and it's why she's never drunk alone before. She doesn't want to be like her dad, who was drunk no matter when you showed up at his house. It's what killed him in the end. She vowed she would never be like him, but she never pictured this. It's impossible to know what or where life will bring you, and this image just never crossed her mental multiplex. Okay, so she wrote it in a fiction once...and she knows fiction is based on reality...but it wasn't her reality. It was someone else's when she wrote it. Now she's brought it home.

Is that what happens? Is that fiction? Something imagined, or perhaps heard about at a distance, that is to be brought home at some point after it's been implanted in your brain.

She wonders if she'll remember this later. She often remembers more than she hopes she will when she's drunk. She makes conscious decisions, ones that she knows she'll regret later, knowing she can claim not to remember them the next day, and thus shed some level of responsibility.

Gin, a mudslide, and a bottle of white wine are not a good combination. She knows that very well, having mixed alcohol before and sworn never to do it again. But she's too far gone to care, not from the alcohol, but just from life.

Yesterday was so good. Today is so bad. Last time, it was the other way around...yesterday was so bad, today was so good. Why is it always that way? Does it have to be? Does a high require a low, and vice versa? She hopes not, but is so afraid it's true. What if the happier she becomes, the more depressive she needs to be to balance it out?

If that's a trick of the universe, it's fucking unfair.

She

She's not sober anymore. It's not a mistake. She wishes she could be passed out by now, but knows it's too early.

The alcohol is flowing through her blood now, the blood dripping off her arm onto the kitchen counter. Even the ants that summer always brings are scared away.

He hid the razors...she's not sure why. Maybe he suspected this was coming again. Maybe it was a mistake. But she found one - and one is all she needs.

Her arm seems to be dripping, but blood dried in a dripping appearance is not the same as blood about to fall. It's like art. The paint is dry, but it appears to be in the process of creating something all the same.

The sleeve of pain is a new feeling, and a good one. It's different from just a few lines, what she used to do. She's going to do more.

She figures this is what a sleeve of tattoos feels like. It occurs to her that she may need a sleeve of ink to cover the marks that today will leave.

Is this romantic? Is it insane? Is it right or wrong, or neither, or both? She doesn't know, she doesn't care. All she knows is that she'll find a reason to regret it in a few days...but right now, that doesn't matter.

She needs help. She knows it. She's even brought it up, but all the nurse did was to put her on drugs. Drugs aren't the answer. Drugs are never the answer.

Alcohol, however...now there's another story. The answer to problems, no. But the answer to wanting to kill yourself? Sure. Why not, if it keeps you alive. If you're too drunk to kill yourself, why not call it beneficial.

Later, she'll be passed out on the kitchen floor, just as planned.

Blood darkens very slowly as it dries. Even when it's past the point when she can wipe it off easily, it's still red, just like it was when it first appeared. It takes a remarkably long time to change color.

The music is too loud, but the silence is too quiet. The music is a better option for a foggy brain. She can't talk herself into anything worse while overtaken by the music.

Besides, singing brings tears, and tears are healthy. So they say. She's always hated crying, for any reason, but they say you have to. So she uses drunkenness as an excuse to shed the tears.

The space between songs seems interminable, stopping before the last song is over and lasting far too long for sanity.

She's only telling you this because she knows you can't help. You're safe. She may not be.

She rereads for typos. If she can find them, she figures, and fix them, she's not drunk.

Royal Flush

Sunday morning my sister hosted breakfast at her house, and most of the family showed up, except for the uncle and aunt from the midwest who had already started their drive back. My youngest sister Liza has a new puppy, and having heard that my mom actually liked him, I asked to witness this unusual phenomenon. My mom is a die-hard cat person, who puts up with dogs out of politeness but thinks they're obnoxious and disgusting. So I was amazed to see her pick up Smudge and cuddle him on her lap, then melt into a puddle of "awww" when he curled up and put his head on her knee.

As we were leaving, Liza said, "Hey B, don't take my puppy! I never thought I'd say those words!"

Kevin and I returned to my mom's long enough to unload the car and repack it, then said our goodbyes and headed off. With no particular need to be anywhere for the rest of the day, we headed for the new poker room that had opened up over the winter in the next town. It didn't open for another hour, so we wandered to a tattoo parlor two towns south, and then west into the city. We poked around in our favorite store, which is a strange combination of sex toy shop, stripper supply store, head shop, motorcycle accessory supplier, clothing store, weapons dealer, and even more things that I can't be bothered to list. He bought me a shiny red stripper outfit with the idea that I would wear it for him on his birthday...which I did, but of course it's also being added to my collection of stripper clothes, which I'm still considering using for their original purpose again.

Back in the car, I put in the new navel ring that he also bought me (I'm not a "buy me stuff" girl, I swear, he suggests it all), and then we went to get pizza. After lunch, we went back to the poker room, which had become startlingly busy, to the point where I had trouble finding parking. It turned out they had just started a freeroll, so we took table cards and sat down.

This was a new experience for me. I play a lot online, and I've played against Kevin and a couple of other friends with real chips, but I've never really played live, certainly not against people I don't know, with actual money in the picture. I did ok for my first time, although after a spectacular double-up (I had pocket sixes, she had pocket nines, and I flopped a set), I found myself card-dead and eventually got blinded out.

Kevin had been knocked out a while before, and when I went to find him, he was involved in a ten-dollar buy-in. So I went and bought myself in and grabbed a seat. I folded the first hand and raised with the second, the A-J of clubs. With three of us in the hand, the flop came Qc-Kc-blank. Check, bet, call, call. The turn was another blank. Check, bet, call, fold; heads-up with my monster draw. The river was the 10c. He bet enough to put me all in and I called instantly. When I flipped over the royal flush, the table erupted, and I broke my poker face in favor of a big grin.

"You're lucky she didn't have more chips!" said the guy on the left. "She woulda wiped you out!" I wished I had had more chips.

"What does she get for that?" asked someone else, and the dealer asked me, "You want a t-shirt?" When I gave her a strange look, she said, "I'm serious, royal flushes get t-shirts. You want one?"

"Sure!" I said, and the tournament director appeared two minutes later with a card room t-shirt.

"I've never made one of those," said the guy across the table, and several other people agreed.

"It was my first," I said, leaving out that that included all of my online play. I don't like to advertise that I'm an internet player, since people make assumptions about your image.

A few hands later our table broke, and I sat down at a short-handed table in the back. By the break, I was doing pretty well and had a good read on my table. One hand back from break, Kevin got knocked out again, and he came and hung out by my table to watch me play.

My table image was working well for me; I'd been folding a lot of hands, and when I did play, I was getting respect. I raised on the button with K-K and got a call from the big blind and another from the cutoff. The flop came Q-10-3, the big blind checked, and the cutoff made a small raise. Feeling my moment, I shoved.

The old guy in the big blind looked at me for a while, then said, "Set of Queens?" I didn't respond. "I'm going to make you rich, young lady," he said, and called. After some deliberation, the cutoff folded, and the big blind flipped over A-K. Happy to see that I was ahead, I waited for the rest of the cards. The turn was a blank, and I tried not to get excited about doubling up. The river was an Ace.

The entire table groaned in sympathy, and I shook the guy's hand, then stood up and headed for the rail.

At the first table we had played, it came up in conversation that there was another card room at a hotel in Wren's town, so we decided to go home that way and check it out. We arrived there at 5:30, saw there was a freeroll at 6:00, and sat down in the bar for some food. The food took twenty minutes, and after stuffing down a fish sandwich at record speed, I followed Kevin back to the poker room. We grabbed seat cards, but the table I was assigned was still full from another tournament. I asked the director if that table was part of the freeroll, and he said yes, then returned several minutes later and switched my card to another table. It turned out the freeroll didn't start until 6:30, so I sat at an empty table for a while and waited.

I chatted with the dealer when he showed up, and eventually the rest of the table filled up as well.

"Hey can I sit with you?" A college-aged guy seemed to pop out of thin air, and this question was directed at me from an uncomfortably close distance.

"What table are you at?" I asked, and was relieved to see that it was not mine. He introduced himself as Matty and I reluctantly gave him my name, then said I would see him at the final table and gave him knuckles. Just as I was retrieving my attention from the encounter, he showed up again with a new seat card.

"I traded," he said proudly, and sat down on my right. I was too polite to actually smack myself in the forehead, but I really wanted to.

"Hey," he said suddenly in my ear, and I jumped, then realized it was a different guy who was leaning in between our seats. "If my brother bothers you, just tell me and I'll get your boyfriend to kick his ass," the new guy said. "By the way, I'm Ira."

"I don't need him," I assured them. "I can beat the shit outta him all by myself."

"Awesome!" said Ira, who was clearly Matty's twin, and went back to his final table and his monster chip stack.

When the tournament eventually began, Matty spent the entire time stirring up the table and raising with shit. I doubled up once, but couldn't seem to get any real traction, and was struggling to keep my concentration with all the chaos. The dealer was annoyed too, especially after he actually had to tell the table to settle down and play poker. That's for high-school classrooms, not poker events. I was disgusted, but I couldn't say anything because everyone seemed to know this guy. When he had first walked away, the lady in seat one commented that he wouldn't be sitting here, and I said, "Thank goodness!" That earned me a glare, and after that I shut up, not wanting my ass handed to me by an in-bred group of yokels.

I bitched vociferously to Kevin on the break, and he told me to rebuy so I could get ahead. I said no, I would rather bust out just to be away from Matty. When we returned, my table broke and I got seated next to Kevin. Now I wanted to play, but when I got out money to rebuy, the dealer said I had missed it by fifty seconds. I doubled up once, then shoved again with Q-6 on a vain hope and got felted by pocket deuces.

Since Kevin was clearly going to be a while, I told him I was going to go find something to do elsewhere, because hanging out in a hot, stuffy, cramped room to watch him play was not how I wanted to spend the evening. He said his cell phone was dead and he would have no way to reach me, so I coudn't go anywhere. I went outside and called Wren and whined about my predicament, but she couldn't pick me up, because she was on her way to her mom's house and then to the house where she's staying for a month to pet-sit.

On a whim, I went to the car to check Kevin's phone. I found both of them, one with half charge and the other with full charge. Annoyed now, I marched back into the room and presented them to him, then marched back out again. I texted Wren to tell her I could leave after all, and ended up meeting her at her mom's house. I was talking with her mom in the kitchen when we heard a panicked voice from her room: "Oh my god I think he's dead!"

She had gone in there to collect her hamster to take with her, and when I went in to see if she was right, I found a very cold, stiff hamster. We took a few minutes to bury him out in the woods and say goodbye, then put her cat Bee in her carrier and headed out. We stopped at Wal-Mart to get mac 'n' cheese, then I followed her to her professor's apartment. It was hot as hell inside, and I ran around opening all the windows while she let out Bee and unpacked the few groceries she'd bought.

We found two copper pots and put them on the stove to boil water, then went into the next room and started unpacking the new window fan. Wren went back into the kitchen for something and I heard her say, "Uh, I think we're setting something on fire." I figured the burners were smoking off and she was overreacting, since she's somewhat fire-phobic, but I got up anyway to make her feel better.

I walked into the kitchen to see eight-inch flames shooting out of the stove.

"Oh my, I guess we are," I said, startled. Wren stood there frozen while I kicked into emergency mode. Looking around for a fire extinguisher, I didn't see one. I reached over the fire to turn on the hood fan so we wouldn't set off the smoke alarm, then peered under the pot to see what was going on.

"Ugh, no wonder," I said, seeing that the drip-pan was full of black goo.

"Is that gonna burn out?" asked Wren.

"Yeah, it should," I said, as the flames got higher. Deciding that the less we smoked the apartment the better, I grabbed the pot of hot water and poured it into the stove. The flames immediately went out, and I stood for a second in a mild state of shock. Then I felt something warm touch my feet, and when I looked down, hot brown water was pouring across the floor from the stove. "Ew." I backed up and wiped my toes on my jeans while Wren got a towel.

We came to the uneasy conclusion that there was only one smoke detector in the apartment, and it would never detect a kitchen fire until it was way too late for any occupants. Wren had the brilliant idea for us to drop off my car back at the hotel so I wouldn't have to pick up Kevin, so we shut everything off and left. I left the car and went inside to give him the keys. He had been texting me periodic updates, so I knew he was at the final table with a monster chip lead, but he felt the need to tell me again, since he hadn't bothered to check his phone for a reply.

Wren and I returned to the apartment and I showed her how to take apart the burners and clean out the drip trays. Then we made mac 'n' cheese with no mishaps, and while I was eating, I got to meet the resident kitten.

A while later, Kevin texted me "2nd place 450" and I gave him directions to find us. He showed up a few minutes later, waving $450 in cash. I congratulated him, then spent the next half hour sitting on the floor while he talked, wishing he would shut the hell up.

Those I Haven't Seen in Years

I have been remiss in blogging this weekend, but it was out of forced close contact with people and not forgetfulness. I have so much to get down, I'll be breaking it up into at least a couple of posts.

Saturday was the big memorial service for Dad. That morning Kevin and I went to the mall to get shoes for him, since he forgot his dress shoes when we left. While there, he decided to get a haircut. That was all well and fine until forty-five minutes passed and he still wasn't done. Having promised my mom I would be back no later than 11:15, it was now 10:45, we were half an hour from her house, and Kevin still didn't have shoes. I marched out of the waiting room and informed him something to the effect that if he wasn't done right now, he wouldn't have a ride home.

I gave him two minutes in Payless, and he found a pair of shoes and bought them without even trying them on. Then I power-walked out of the mall, taking the stairs on the escalator two at a time while he huffed along behind me and begged me to slow down. When he started to make sarcastic comments about me being mad at him for the rest of the day, I told him, "This is not a good day to give me shit, so don't." And he stopped.

Fortunately mom wasn't annoyed when we reached the house, just in a hurry, and I began a whirlwind of multi-tasking, loading up her car and mine, getting dressed, doing my makeup, and chasing her around the house, the whole time toting around a bowl of mini-wheats and stuffing them down between tasks.

We arrived at the church about an hour before the service, and mom parked herself in the kitchen at the Little Brown House to set up the reception while Kevin and I provided tech support at the church itself, setting up everything that was needed for the slideshow. My accompanist who was doubling as the service organist was there practicing, and he helped us to move the pulpit and the chairs into the back room so everything was set up the way mom wanted it. I let Kevin set up the rest of our equipment while I got out my violin for a quick practice.

Wren had come in about forty minutes early, and I pointed her to the LBR when she asked for a bathroom. When she failed to reappear, I realized my mom had roped her into kitchen duty. Eben showed up just as I finished tightening my bow, and I was so excited to see him that I ran the length of the church before I realized I hadn't put the instrument down. Not wanting to put it on the floor, I bear-hugged him anyway and tried not to whack him in the head with it.

Theoretically I knew the guest list for the service, but in all the frenzy I hadn't bothered to remember just how many people from my past were showing up. Fortunately they were all good surprises when I spotted them, and all received hugs and "Oh my god I haven't seen you in so long!" My mom's neighbor, my second violin teacher, my grade-school teacher, and one of my oldest friend's mom and dad, who had separated several years ago but are fortunately still civil to each other. I haven't heard a thing from that friend in years, and I still miss her. When her mom informed me that she was no longer three thousand miles away and was in fact only one state over, I just about jumped up and down in excitement. I have to find her before she disappears again.

Anyway, the service itself was absolutely perfect. While some might say that my mom took on too much of the work herself, that's just the way she operates (kinda like me...hm...), and she did a beautiful job. She even managed to say everything she wanted to say without breaking down, something I wouldn't even have attempted. Two of my uncles and one of my dad's friends shared stories about him, the Freemasons did their traditional service, and I played Pachelbel's Canon and Gigue in D with accompaniment.

Struggling with the sheet music, I managed to miss a few notes, but I'm good at catching up again without making any accompanying musicians wait for me - a talent all orchestral players are forced to learn, and fast. I wasn't too worried about the mistakes, but I was still surprised at the number of people who came up to me afterwards with comments such as, "That was so beautiful! You play so well!" The first one was Wren; she was sitting behind me, and when I sat back down she whispered, "Wow, I didn't know you could do that." Most of my college friends, with the exception of Eben, have never heard me play anything at all.

By the time the reception started, I had the full-body shakes from lack of food, and I headed straight for the table and started stuffing my face. It was a whirlwind of talking and food, greeting people who were completely unfamiliar but who apparently remembered me. "We met you when you were this tall!" they said, holding a hand three feet off the floor and smiling inanely.

Great, and who the hell are you again?

Wren eventually took off to meet up with her boyfriend, after helping us to take down our stuff and put the church back together. Eben followed me and Kevin to my sister's house where the family was gathering, then took off when the party moved to my mom's place. There was more food and more family craziness, and by the time everyone took off I was tired. Kevin and I decided to go out for coffee, and as soon as I got in the car, tired became exhausted, and I nearly fell asleep while I was driving. When we got back to the house, Kevin got out his computer and played poker, and I fell asleep watching the screen with my head underneath his elbow.

The Young Dead Soldiers

The first of the services for my dad was today...and though of course it was miserable, I'm still truckin' like I do. The reason there are two is that today was the Marines' official honoration and interrment, which they only do during the week. The service where the rest of the family can speak and share pictures and other things is tomorrow.

We drove an hour north to the state's burial grounds for servicemen and -women. It was pouring rain the entire way, so the service part of things was held indoors in their chapel. All of our close relatives were there, including my mom's side of the family. Except, of course, for my two nieces. I can't let myself hold it against them, because the older one had to work and the younger one was watching my sister's dog...but sometimes they make me wonder.

Two Marines marched in to begin the service, delivering a folded flag and the urn with Dad's ashes in it, then marched out again. A neighbor of my mom's who was in the service for fifty years did all the talking, since none of us were up to doing any, and read a poem.

The Young Dead Soldiers

Archibald MacLeish

The young dead soldiers do not speak.
Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses:
who has not heard them?
They have a silence that speaks for them at night
and when the clock counts.
They say: We were young. We have died.
Remember us.
They say: We have done what we could
but until it is finished it is not done.
They say: We have given our lives but until it is finished
no one can know what our lives gave.
They say: Our deaths are not ours: they are yours,
they will mean what you make them.
They say: Whether our lives and our deaths were for
peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say,
it is you who must say this.
We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning.
We were young, they say. We have died; remember us.

Then the Marines marched in again and unfolded the flag. They played Taps from somewhere in the back of the chapel, and just as it began, the rain disappeared and the sun came out. Then they folded up the flag, saluted it, and presented it to mom.

I have never before seriously considered going into the services. It's something that crosses everyone's mind at some point, I think, because we all know at least a few people who serve or have served. As well as my father being a Marine, I have two friends who are currently in the army, and Wren's new boyfriend is on active duty in the Navy.

I'm not cut out for the services; I know that. I'm not going to go enlist. But for just a few minutes, while our neighbor was speaking about his time in service, I really understood what it is that drives those who do enlist. Dad said many times in his life that it was the best thing he ever did and that he believed everyone should have mandatory service. He countered that only once by saying it was the worst mistake he ever made. He never pushed me to go into service, but I knew he would be proud of me if I did. It would be the highest honor I could possibly give Dad if I were to become a Marine.

But it's not for me.

After waiting a few minutes for the groundskeeper to put Dad's urn in its place, we all walked out to see it. By that time the rain was already starting to dry up, and the sun was hot. We stood around for a while and talked and cried, and then eventually wandered off to make the drive back down to town.

Most of us met up again at the restaurant where my oldest sister bartends on the weekends, and we sat for three hours and drank and ate and were really awesomely roudy. The napkin war would have gotten us kicked out of almost any other place.

Interestingly, as we were about to leave the burial grounds, the aforementioned aunt Renee came up to ask me how I was doing, and it was with genuine feeling. It's rare to see any emotion out of her at all aside from harsh sarcasm and bitterness, but she was sympathetic in a way that you just can't fake.

"I thought I was young when my father died," she said. "But not as young as you."

"How old were you?" I asked.

"Thirty-three."

As terrible a process as grieving is, and as much as I would never wish it on anybody, it does have some positive effects sometimes on those who are left here.

Blowup Doll

This is old stuff, but I'm back in a place where it fits me perfectly.

I'm everybody's blowup doll

I have no life

My mouth is open to accept your words

Or your venom

I have a skirt painted on

But it won't protect me

So pump me up

When you're ready to play

Have fun, deflate me

And put me away

I'll wait in my box

For one more day

Forever

I can't say what's wrong

Dolls can't talk

Can't get up and leave

Because dolls can't walk

I'm so naive

But I've been around the block

My eyes are open

But I see nothing ahead

I have all the fun

But I feel so dead

You ask me what's wrong

Then say it's all in my head

I've only one use

So put me to bed

You puncture my heart

And put tape on the tears

Everybody loves me

And nobody cares

I wish I could think

But my head's full of air

You say that you're sorry

But life isn't fair

(C) 2007 Skylar Blue

TMI Tuesday

1. Would you stay in a loveless relationship for the amazing sex?

Maybe for a little while, but not forever.

2. If you could only have one, which would you choose: love that lasts forever or great, body numbing sex?

Love.

3. Looking back at your past loves, which one should you have married/taken back and who should you have tossed earlier than you did?

There are none I should have stayed with longer than I did. I probably should have gotten rid of my first girlfriend way before I did...but then again, that's how we learn these lessons. A mistake is not a mistake but instead a lesson if you learn from it.

4. if you had one last fuck in you where, how and who would you “give it” to?

Whoever I was with at the time, and it would be as spectacular as possible.

5. Which is more important sex, money, love and happiness? (and no, you can’t pick’em all)

Happiness. Having those other things are part of happiness, but not all of it; and not everyone even needs all of those to be happy. Happiness is whatever you find it to be for you. And if you are truly happy, who cares if you haven't got any of those things?

TMI Tuesday #192

On Aunt Renee

All of this chatter going on in my head recently about decisions and self and all sorts of complicated human issues has brought one more realization to me. Actually, it's brought quite a few, but there's a particular one that I'm about to discuss.

I have an aunt who nobody in the family really likes because she's a bitch. I won't often call people that, and when I do, I mean it. This woman is cold and sarcastic, likes nothing more than to cut other people down, and can't take what she dishes. While I'm normally up for a good verbal war, she's one I just avoid as best I can, because she tends to hit below the belt.

My mom's and my summation of aunt Renee is that she feels the world owes her something. She grew up poor and with an alcoholic father who, to the best of my knowledge, was somewhat abusive. All of that and possibly other things left her with the impression that the world needs to pay her back for what it took from her as a child. Never mind that she now has a loving husband, a beautiful house, a steady job, and more money than the rest of us. It's become ingrained in her personality that everybody owes her.

It's come to my attention recently that I'm Renee's exact opposite: I feel like I owe the world something. I don't know why, but I've always been like that. I help other people before I help myself, I go out of my way to do random favors and won't accept repayment, and I feel guilty and awkward when someone else does something nice for me. I would happily lend any money I had to a friend in need, but I hate it when my friends buy me things or lend me money, even if I really need it. Wren bought me dinner last week and I didn't even know what do with myself.

While my outlook is certainly more pleasant on other people than Renee's, it needs some work. While I generally consider myself to be an honest person, I trap myself into white lies sometimes, saying things that I know people want to hear just because I can't stand the thought of hurting or displeasing them. When I am forced into giving constructive criticism, I give it so nicely and with so much "oh but everything else is GREAT!" that I don't think people even take me seriously.

And then I get trapped into supporting what I said in the first place if it comes up again. I'm so nice I end up screwing myself, and then I'm too nice to get out of it. I can never say, "Okay, so I lied the first time."

Just one more thing about me that I need to figure out. And then fix.

The Fake Stripper

Aiden is looking for my thoughts on his latest blog entry, which details another of our meetings that occurred yesterday. It involved coffee and a small park and makeouts and wrestling, and was pretty much exactly like all of our other meetings.

I'm not exactly sure what he's looking for in the way of thoughts from me, but I suspect he's hoping for the same thing everyone else wants from me, the one thing I can't give: a definite, in terms of anything. The way I see it, I don't want to make any big decisions or changes right now, in any direction. Not until I've managed to get some kind of hold on this horrible directionless, depressive outlook. I don't want to make a big change now and then come out of this funk later, look back and go, "Shit. What the fuck was I thinking?"

He keeps saying he's sorry that I feel guilty. I think that's both silly and pointless, as it's my problem either way. He wants to know what my plans are, what I'm doing for the summer, what I'm doing for the fall, when or if I'm going to dump Kevin, where I'm going to be living. Kevin wants to know the same thing. So does my mom. I'd like to know those things too.

"Are you still attracted to me?" asks Kevin, and I have no answer. I have no libido at all, one of a collection of odd changes I've noticed in my body over the last few months. I've definitely undergone some kind of chemical modification, and I need to find the cause.

Chemical changes can cause depression...but depression can also cause chemical changes. It could be a vicious cycle feeding itself, or it could be just way one or the other. Kevin's blaming my pills, and I suppose he could be right, but I'm reluctant to give up those particular ones, because they're a three-month pack. Then again, if that really is the cause and I have to get rid of them, I'll do it. Being here sucks.

On another topic, I made a decision and felt good about myself for doing it, since too often I tend to let other people decide things for me. Then I let someone else unmake for me, and now I'm treading water again.

I hate not having a job. I also hate the thought of taking another stupid churn 'n' burn corporate factory job where my boss will act like he loves me and then suddenly fire me without warning and for no concrete reason. (Yeah, I'm a little bitter at The Man right now.) So I made the decision to go back to the clubs. I used to be a stripper, and I had a ton of fun doing it. I got out of it when I went to work in a club that had gone so far downhill from what it used to be that these days it's unrecognizable. I made next to no money because every other girl there would sell herself, any part that anybody wanted, for a Champagne Room, and I have more self-integrity than that. I was a stripper, never a whore.

So I worked six weeks in a gas station, three months on a helpdesk, and two months in a diner. I've now been unemployed for over two months, and Kevin and I are both flat broke and I'm going fucking crazy. I told him yesterday that I'm going back to dancing, and the response began with, "Oh, please no!", continued until he was in tears, and ended up with us barely speaking to each other for two hours while we tried to make dinner. Eventually we made up, in a way, but while carefully avoiding the subject at hand.

We're speaking again, but giving each other the horribly-not-okay "okay."

"Fine, do what you want, I'll just try not to think about it."

"Fine, forget it, I won't fucking do it."

Not exactly the result I was hoping for, and now I have no idea what to do. I was expecting protest, but I was expecting the more standard variety that I get from everyone else, which runs along the lines of, "Be careful, there's bad guys, there's drugs, don't do anything stupid, I'll worry about you..."

What I got was not that, which I can deal with, but instead, "We haven't fixed our own intimate relationship, and now you're going to be selling that sense to someone else, even if it doesn't mean anything to you. I have feelings too, and now they're hurt. I can't even get the fake version!"

"It would be an insult to you if I faked it." I gave him my biggest, and most obviously fake, smile. "If you'd like the fake version, I can arrange that!"

Of course, that too was insulting and "snide." I just can't win.

The Wanderer

I believe that everybody has a purpose in life, something they are meant to be or to achieve. Some people fulfull theirs and some don't; some people are aware of theirs and some aren't. Some people have more than one.

I've been considering the idea, since about the time I started this blog, that perhaps one of mine is awakening other people. Not like a human alarm clock (now there would be a dangerous job), like a...well, I'm not really sure if there's a succinct phrase for it. But I've wondered whether my job in life isn't to wander through others' lives, pointing out to them that there is always more to life than what they are complacent with.

Many people have said to me that I have a passion for life that most people don't, that I'm enthusiastic and vivacious and can make even the smallest daily things fun. I have trouble seeing that in myself, of course; most of us are unaware or rather skeptical of those things that others refer to as our best traits. That's not what matters, though. The important part is that people see me that way, and they tend to pick it up off me.

So maybe I'm meant to wander into people's lives, shake them up, shove them off balance, and encourage them to see that there are other things out there. Then I move on to shaking up someone else. The thing is, if that's what I'm supposed to be doing, I think I'm doing it wrong somehow...because the people I shake up get strangely attached to me as a result. Is breaking hearts part of putting people on their toes, or is it a crime I'm committing unintentionally?

The Deep Dark Woods

My cute little internet handle for myself has come true: I'm literally black and blue this morning, along with a healthy dose of scratches and blisters. I look like I lost a fight, and I feel like I got run over by a fully loaded freight train. Needless to say, last night was not a good one.

It began innocently enough. Kevin and I went to the wedding of one of his close friends about half an hour away. I was a little grumpy because I'd been losing money at poker, but nothing was terribly wrong. When we reached the inn where it was being held, they were without power due to the rainstorm and didn't have a backup generator, so the wedding was held in the dark. An hour into the reception, the lights came back on and everyone cheered, and things continued as they were originally intended.

I deliberately hadn't eaten during the afternoon because I knew the reception included dinner, so by the time the ceremony was over I was starving. The food, of course, didn't show up for another hour and a half. But there was an open bar. Kevin and I looked at each other and said, "Free booze? Let's get drunk!"

That's all well and fine for him, who can hold his booze like nobody else I know. It takes most of a bottle of vodka to get him drunk, so even with the open bar he remained sober. I didn't. I barely remember the food arriving. The night melted into a blur of toasts, dancing, talking, and food. The next thing I know I was in the car trying to drive away, with Kevin standing in front of me yelling at me to turn the car off.

I started crying, and then I heard somebody say that they'd called the police. I parked the car while the groom's brother tried to talk to me, but I just promised him I wasn't going to drive and stuck the keys in my purse. Next thing I remember I found myself crashing through the woods up behind the inn. It was raining and it was dark and I didn't know the area, and on top of that I was drunk out of my mind and wearing heels. I must have fallen down every ten steps; I couldn't stay upright, but I kept going.

I couldn't seen anyone following me. For some reason that I still can't imagine, I called Wren, and I still wish I hadn't. She didn't need the worry of me slurring over the phone, "I'm in the woods! I'm running away! I don't want them to get me! Yes, I can see the lights. No, I'm not going back."

I made it to the top of the mountain, turned left, and started down again, knowing that would bring me to the road. I remember more falling than walking, but I couldn't feel any pain, and I pulled myself upright again and again and continued down the hill. Eventually I reached a logging road, and I followed that to the paved road. Now able to stay upright, I walked with a purpose towards what I thought was north. Unfortunately, it turned out later that I was actually going south toward the city, and not north toward home.

Plenty of cars went by, and I stuck out my thumb, but none of them stopped for me. I don't know how long I walked before I was surrounded by flashing blue lights. Even drunk, I'm not stupid enough to run from the police. I cooperated while the officer put me in the back of his car and drove me back to the inn, where Kevin and his friends were waiting for me.

Kevin drove me back home and made me go to bed, refusing to let me shower first. Still unsure of what was going on, I burst into tears again and sobbed while he got ready for bed himself. I could tell he was angry at me, and that just made me more upset, since I didn't even know what had happened.

We were awake until five talking about what happened and other stuff. I told him that I had cut myself again; he knows I've done it before, although I've never showed anyone before last night. His comment was, "While the art is beautiful, you shouldn't have to do that to feel better." I finally agreed to talk to a counselor, something I've been resisting for a while. I need to keep it from appearing on my insurance, because if my mom finds out, she'll throw a fit.

Mom's a little crazy in a few respects, and is convinced that all doctors but hers are quacks. She also can't stand the thought of her little girl having any problems. When I was diagnosed with asthma as a teenager, it was no surprise to me; I'd known for years. But it was practically the end of her world, realizing that I wasn't perfect. I've tried to tell her several times over the last year that I have OCD, and every time the response runs something like, "Don't say things like that! Don't think that way!" I'm pretty sure if I got professionally diagnosed, she would just go on a rant about how these things are over-diagnosed in this country and all these stupid diseases the doctors are making up are all bullshit.

In the mean time, I'm still shaking from exhaustion, and I think there's a steaming pile of something where my brain should be. Time for some tea and a quiet day. Except I still need to go have a fight with my bank about the thirty-five-dollar charge they whacked me for overdrawing by ten cents.

The Good Fight

I don't understand how today can have started so much better than yesterday, and I don't feel like I need to right now. Yesterday morning was one of the worst I've had in months, and today, in comparison, has so far been one of the best.

I woke up yesterday determined to take a bike ride to cheer myself up and feel like I had gotten something done, but after Kevin sat down and talked at me for forty-five minutes about how I'm procrastinating and I need to get my life together etcetera etcetera, I was too down on myself to consider being useful anymore. He has a way of making what should be a pep talk into something guilt-inducing, not that I'm blaming him for my own mental insecurities.

When I'm having a particularly harsh down moment like that, I have a tendency to take out my frustrations with self-body-mods. Some, probably most, people would tell me that's a terrible habit that needs to be curbed. It amazes me how many people can look down on someone else's method of dealing with pain and basically tell them they're a bad person for it. Alocoholism is an accepted method of drowning your sorrows; self-modification is not.

Never mind that my mods don't last, I don't seriously hurt myself, and I'm very careful to be safe and clean about it.

Not sure where that little rant popped up from. Anyway, I dressed to cover the marks yesterday, since I've never been one to show off my self-inflicted scars, and I didn't want Kevin to feel guilty, since he would find a way to. We went out to dinner with Wren and her new boyfriend last night and had a bunch of fun. I really like him, better than her last one. I hope things work out for her this time.

So I got up this morning and cleaned the kitchen, something I haven't done with any joy in quite a while. Cleaning is symbolic of different things for different people; for me, it means I'm feeling cheerful and productive. My OCD manifests in a slightly unusual form. For many people with OCD, they clean when they're depressed or experiencing anxiety, because it's a way to help them gain control of their surroundings. I'm the opposite; when I get depressed, the major manifestations of my OCD disappear. I don't clean, I don't organize, and I don't give a shit what order I eat my food in.

This is why I'm so ecstatic I was back to a normal cleaning attack this morning. I put away the clean dishes, washed the dirty ones, took out the trash, cleaned the cats bowls, fed the cats, put away the recycles, and I'm eyeing the fridge as being in need of a drastic reorganization. The weather is nice, I have the window and the doors open, and I feel GOOD in a way that I haven't felt in a long time. I didn't realize it had been so long until just now. It's scary that you can start falling into depression for a significant length of time and not even know.

I'm off to keep fighting the good fight.

This Sinking Ship

I am beginning to fall apart again, after I worked so hard to pick up the pieces and I thought I was doing so well. In trying to make everything right, I'm just ripping myself to pieces again. I want to be happy, and I want everyone around me to be happy, and those things can't all physically coincide - but I'm trying anyway, because it's what I do.

For as long as I can remember, I've been the pillar, the rock, the support for anyone and everyone who needed me. The first time I remember being that I was six, and I held my mother while she cried because her own mother was in the hospital. I was worried about my grandmother too, of course, but I didn't cry, even though I had never seen my mom cry before and it scared me. I knew she needed me to be strong, and I was.

In high school, my friend Maria cried on me when everyone else picked on her for being a foreigner. When I found out my mom had breast cancer, I didn't cry because she needed me. When Maria's mom died of the same thing, I went to the funeral and supported her. When my dad told us that he had Lou Gherrig's disease (ALS) and had approximately two years to live, I didn't cry. When we found out six months later that he was lying, I brushed it off.

When his alcoholism finally caught up to him and he did actually die, I stayed with him and my mom and my oldest sister in the hospital after the rest of the family had all gone home, and they never saw me cry. At my cousin's funeral two weeks later, I supported the rest of the family. At my grandmother's memorial service two months ago, I was the only one in the room aside from the pastor who didn't cry.

It's not to say I don't have feelings, or that I never cry; neither of those are true. But I've always felt it's my duty to be there for everyone else when they need it. When I want to be strong, I am. I never crack, not until the opportunity I'm looking for presents itself. The entire world could fall down around me - and there are days I've felt that it already has - and I would be unbreakable until it was all over.

When I started dating my first girlfriend and realized how many emotional problems she had from her past, I was her love, her support, and her personal therapist. When we broke up and I moved on to Kevin, I was the same for him. He said I showed him what real love was like after he broke up with his fiancee of four years; when his father was dying in the hospital, I was there at his family's side.

When I met Aiden at work, I was ecstatic to have made a new friend, as I am the posessor of a strange personality contradiction: I'm a good friend, and I love having friends, but I have a very hard time making them. Two days into our friendship he started telling me about his problems with his wife, and it was familiar territory for me; give a shoulder, offer advice. It was a comfortable place.

I wasn't entirely surprised when we ended up having an affair. We were both cute, friendly, had the same interests, and were experiencing stresses in our current long-term relationships. It almost made sense.

But I never meant it to go where it has. I thought it would be a physical thing, like friends with bennies, so we could both blow off steam and have some fun. But then we both managed to get emotionally involved. Suddenly I went from being the fling on the side to being told, "I'd rather be with you than my wife. You're so much more fun, so much more understanding..."

I am everybody's savior but my own.

Aiden, I'm sorry I've been ignoring you. I'm not trying to cause you any hurt or worry, but it's all I can do to hold myself together these days. I just can't get out of my own head and my own worries and problems. I feel like I'm drowning, and I'm grabbing at the only thing I can see that might save me, which is pushing you away.

As you have said to me before, I never wanted to hurt you in any of this. I was confused and didn't know where my life was going, but I never meant to take it out on you. I guess I did, and now I feel bad for doing it, and I don't know where to go from here. I'm pulling everyone in my life down with me and I can't figure out how to stop.

~

I don't know how to leave you

And I don't know how to stay

I've got things that I must tell you

That I don't know how to say

The man behind these empty words

Is crying out in shame

Holding on to this sinkin' ship

When nothing else remains

All I want is everything

Am I asking too much

All I want is everything

Like the feel of your touch

All I have are yesterdays

Tomorrow never comes

(Def Leppard, All I Want Is Everything)

So...the Stars are Aligned, or What?

I had agreed last night (well, mostly) to meet up with Aiden today between his jobs, but when this morning rolled around Kevin wouldn't leave the house. Technically he's supposed to be at work at nine, but he's usually there around nine-thirty and nobody cares. But this morning he didn't get there until eleven, because he was angry with his company because they haven't been sending him his expense checks on time. Well, I'd be upset too.

He did eventually go, and I gave him five minutes to get ahead of me and then found Aiden in a field-slash-hiking-area he'd showed me a couple of weeks ago. He said he wanted to talk somewhere more private, so he brought pizza and we sat in my car and ate, since it was raining.

He said his wife was going to leave him; he's said that before, so I asked what was different this time. It wasn't entirely clear, but it seemed that it wasn't clear to him either, and not that he was deliberately trying to keep anything from me. Apparently Lily has convinced her therapist that Aiden's emotionally abusive, so the therapist has been telling her to leave. She was going to wait until after their July Fourth party, but it slipped out last night at the marriage counseling. He doesn't know when she's planning to leave or any other details.

When I mentioned it to Wren, she said, "Yeah right. Don't you think it's just another one of her games?"

She could be right. Lily has a talent for making people believe whatever story she cares to concoct at the moment. Then again, she could be either listening to her therapist or manipulating her therapist into giving her advice she wants to hear.

And really, does it matter to me whether it's one or any of the above? It's Aiden and Lily's problem to work out, not mine. I have enough of my own right now, as was brought sharply to my attention last night when I went to bed with Kevin a little after one in the morning. I finally got up and went to sleep on the couch at two-thirty after melting down into a silent, sobbing panic attack while he snored.

He says I have depression. He's right, but we disagree about the cause, not that I've said anything. He thinks my depression is the reason I get bored in relationships after a year or so. I think I'm depressed because I am bored. He says I'm misinterpreting depression as "boredom" and I'm not really bored. I say the pull between the boredom and the attachment is what's causing the depression.

He, of course, wants me to go to the doctor and get medicated. I have no interest in antidepressants and think that sounds like a shitty idea. The battles continues.

Anyway, I got back from my short meeting with Aiden this afternoon, plopped down on the couch and started surfing the web. About an hour in, my phone rang, and I looked at the caller ID, wondering who would be calling me. Aiden was at work, Kevin was at work, Wren was at work, and my mother talked to me yesterday...it was Alejandra. I thought it would be longer before I heard from her, and I didn't think she'd call me.

Unsure what to say and knowing that bad cell reception and a sensitive conversation are a very bad combination, I let her leave a voicemail.

"Hi Skylar, it's Alejandra, I know you're probably still mad at me, I'm not really sure what happened, but I thought maybe we could talk it out, and depending on your summer plans [something unintelligible] and I hope you're out of school and classes and enjoying your summer and having fun. So if you could give me a call back that'd be awesome."

She's "not really sure" what happened? I thought I made it quite clear. Apparently not enough for her. I'm wondering if she's up here on vacation or something, or if today was a day to call for absolutely no reason.

Five minutes later...

It's one of those days. Wren just IM'd me to say, "You'll never guess who messaged ME!" I did, actually, on the fifth guess, and it was a guy from her past. Billy was her first love, and then a fuck toy eight years later, and now suddenly he says, "How are you?"

So. Anybody else gotten any weird calls lately?

TMI Tuesday

Have you ever...

1. had sex with someone ten years older or younger than you?

Yes - 13 years in fact.

2. drawn from a nude model or been a nude model?

No, but if someone paid me I'd be happy to!

3. had sex at a company Christmas party?

Hehe. No.

4. had a blind date?

No, I'd never do that. I'd be way too uncomfortable.

5. slept with a teacher?

No...

Bonus (as in optional): had sex with someone within an hour of meeting them?

Nope, not that either! Damn, this week made me sound boring.

TMI Tuesday #190

Chicks That Drive Sticks

Kevin and I spent this weekend tearing apart our motorcycles...well, his motorcycle. Mine ran with remarkably little coersion, needing only a couple of jump-starts from my car. His needed some parts replaced, including the carb intake boots and the cylinder intakes, plus the replacement of a truly frightening melted wire and the taping of the rear turn signals. I probably shouldn't feel as smug as I do about having a significantly nicer bike than my boyfriend.

The bike work was genuine fun, something I don't get nearly enough of these days. We were both involved, interested, and helping each other, and he was too distracted to be constantly making sexual comments and then getting pissed off when I didn't respond, as he spends most of his time doing now. I even had a moment of amusement when I grabbed a water bottle from the sink to clean my bike, filled it up, and started cleaning the bike...only to realize that the water that was already in the bottle was orange-flavored, and I was making the bike smell like fake oranges.

Even though it runs, I still have to take apart my bike to track down what I believe is a loose electrical connection somewhere. When I put it away last fall, the turn signals had stopped working completely after a short bout of working only when the bike was warm. When I took it out yesterday, they worked fine, but the battery didn't seem to be charging. After I had failed to jump it from the jump-pack and jumped it twice from my car, it still refused to start on its own...and then I left it, took a shower, came back, and it started fine. Perhaps another melted wire like the one in Kevin's bike? We'll find out tonight, I hope.

So I have a bike that works and a motorcycle license, but no registration, inspection, or insurance, because I can't afford those things. Kevin has a bike that works and the money for registration etcetera, but no motorcycle license and no idea how to ride. He proved that yesterday in a moment that could have gone horribly wrong but fortunately produced only minor damage on his part and concealed hilarity on mine.

When the bike was finally running and put back together, he asked me to ride it up and down the driveway to make sure it worked like it should. I did so with no problems, except for one strange issue: when I turned the handlebars in either direction, the engine revved to several times idle speed. I told him about it and he decided to have his friend come over one of these days and take a look. Then he said, "Should I try to ride it down the driveway?"

I knew that wouldn't end well, but also that it wouldn't be appreciated to tell him no, so I shrugged and told him to do what he wanted.

"Hey, what's the worst that can happen...I fall and get killed."

"Nah, the worst that can happen here is you break your leg," I said pragmatically, knowing there was a good chance that would actually happen. I got the bike situated so he had a straight shot from one end of the driveway to the other and handed it over.

It took him ten or so tries to let the clutch out without stalling it, and when he finally did get going, the result was exactly what I expected. He rolled to the end of the driveway, didn't brake enough or in time, tried to turn, the engine revved and the bike spun out from underneath him. I watched without moving as it stuttered, revved, turned, and started to go over, and he hopped sideways as it finally skidded out and landed on its side, fortunately not on his leg.

I jogged down to make sure he was all right, then helped him lift the bike back upright. Fortunately nothing had broken or spilled, and it started right back up for me. I revved the engine, let out the clutch, and rode it smoothly back to where it had begun.

Yes, the clutch is stiff and it needs a new clutch cable, but Kevin's swearing about the clutch being "too quick" for him was obviously bullshit. His hands are much stronger than mine and I had no trouble with it, though I wouldn't take the bike more than a mile because it would tire my hand too much. He just can't admit that he's not as good at driving a standard as he claims. I've watched him torture both my old car and Wren's, and winced every time. Power to the chicks that drive sticks, I say.

The Balance

I came up to my mom's house yesterday to provide tech support, get my car serviced, and get some peace. I was originally supposed to drive back down this afternoon, but upon finding out that the car had a damaged rim, had to stay through until tomorrow so it could be fixed.

Kevin and I get along better when we're not near each other as often. I know that's me; if he had his way, we would be together twenty-four/seven and it would be perfect. I, however, need my me-time, on a regular basis and in significant amounts. While I believe that everyone needs that to a certain extent, some people more than others, there are days I wonder whether he even needs two seconds a day to himself. It's like he exists entirely for me, has substituted my reality for his own (as Eben so neatly put it), and it's annoying as hell.

We're chatting right now about why I came back to him after our first breakup, and I'm trying to pull out answers to questions that I don't know the answers to, and trying to put them in words that aren't insanely insulting. I know I need to move out, but now I'm wavering between moving out and breaking up or just moving out and getting space, and continuing the relationship. I've actually told him that dilemma, which wasn't quite in my plans, but being honest doesn't feel like a bad thing. I've done enough plotting and lying and stupid crap, a little honesty is good for me.

TMI Tuesday

1. What was the last movie you saw on a date?

Wolverine...unfortunately, the guys sitting behind us wouldn't shut the fuck up for more than two minutes at a time throughout the entire movie. Determined to beat up at least one of them in the parking lot afterwards, I was most disappointed when the movie was over and I realized they were all about 12.

2. What was the last meal you had on a date?

Steak tips and pasta, right after the aforementioned movie.

3. When was the last time you made out in the car on a date? More?

Can't even remember.

4. Using dating websites do you think you are more likely to find a "hook up" or a relationship?

I never use those things; they sketch me out.

5. Do you have any special "first" date rituals? Flowers, certain restaurant, etc.?

Since I don't start dating someone until I'm already friends with them, and I'm never exactly sure what to count as a "first date," I can't really answer that.

TMI Tuesday #189