I Have to Get Out of This Life

But, I don't know how. I don't know what I am going to do. I have talked about it for years now, joining the navy and getting the fuck out of this shit hole life I've created--which has also been created around me--but I have no follow through, no will power, no strength of spirit or mind...and so I have sat still and let the world around me get darker and gloomier and resentful of my existence.  I am being forced against the wall, which I know that I need, but part of me is still rebelling; part of me is still saying, if I do this now and I do it well, it won't be because I wanted it, or because I could, it will be because I was forced into it; it will be because someone else's will made me do it and it will be worthless. That's how I feel, worthless. All of the time, no matter what I do or how I do it. I want to rid myself of these people that will take credit for "raising" me or "pushing" me or "forcing" me to do something. I want to get rid of them because I can't get rid of the feeling that they make my achivements worthless and that the only reason I did anything was because of them. I don't want them in my life at all anymore, let alone around to say their fucking "thank yous" when I do something, because apparently I couldn't have done it without their pushing me to be better. I want to say a huge "fuck you" to each one and encourage them to forget me. I want to change my number and disappear and be alone to accomplish what I need to accomplish. I want the people I want in my life to be there, and I honestly want the rest of them to fuck off and get out. To stop calling or talking or caring. To just go fuck themselves. I want to love them, or I want to kill them and all they could have been to me, if maybe they'd been better friends or family or whatever. If I end up with one friend, that's fine. At least I know she doesn't resent me or anything I might do. I just want to get the hell away, get out of their lives, get on with mine. I guess I will join the navy. It isn't really plan A, but I don't think I will last another year in this place, with this contempt boiling at my back when I walk into a room. Unfortunately, I can't avoid it when it's in the same house as I am; and, right now if I moved out I'd be living on the street. I'm not quite ready for that much give up. I think I still have some fight in me. I don't know where it's hidden or how to access it, but it has to be in there, or I don't think I'd still be alive. In fact, I know I wouldn't.
So, what do I do? Where do I go from here?
I only have to lose a few inches off of my waist and hips to be eligible for the navy. If I can lost six off both, maybe twenty to thirty pounds, and do it in the next two months...I might be able to join up, I might be able to be a medic, I might be able to get the discipline and self-confidence boost I need to survive. I might even get to do something I have always wanted to do--fly. We'll see; one stupid fucking step at a time. "How do you eat an elephant?" Fuck my mother for putting the phrase into my head, but it has become a favorite. One tiny, little nibble of a bite at a time.
I don't have to know how to do something, I just have to know that I can. So, I guess that's what I am learning. From here, I will work on losing one inch. If I can do it, than I can lose another. That's a good start, I think. Hopefully I can get my life together, get myself to move on, and get the fuck out of this shit hole I've built. Maybe one day I'll even be happy. No guarantees there.

So I'll Try, I'll Try

This is what I want.

I want to lose weight.

I want to get into the navy.

I want to get my debt paid, and my bills taken care of, and to live financially stable.

But, more than anything, I want to be back in school, getting a degree, doing something I feel is actually worthwhile, and, furthermore, worth my time.

I want to be back in school, full-time. Full-time.

So, I'll do what it takes to get what I want.

Never Gonna Fall for Modern Love

Losing Touch

I don't know what I'm doing wrong, but it's something. If I look like I've lost weight, or if I seem thinner, I must have gained just that much muscle, because I can't seem to lose a single pound. My weight is fluctuating and bobbing up and down like no one's business, but it never seems to breech 195 and it never fails to jump back up to 200 when I'm not looking. I don't know what to do, I feel like it just won't happen for me.

It doesn't help that, today, for the first time in a long time, I had a real difficult time breathing. I cut it short simply because I wasn't sure my breath was caught. It wasn't. Granted, for the first time in a long time, I have committed myself to running, but in the interim, I've been huffing it at a very fast speed walk, on an incline, and haven't had a problem.

I just feel like a failure. Like it just ain't gonna happen.

I feel like I'm shattered, with so little left in my life, I'm holding on by my fingers to all my jagged pieces, trying to put them back together.

I don't want to give up. Just as I feel I'm falling down, I also feel like I've had an epiphany, like I see what I need to do, and that I must do it. I am the only one who can. It's like I actually know that now, instead of saying it to myself but truly believing deep-down someone else will eventually come to rescue me. There will be no rescue party, there will be non of that. I am all there is for me.

I get that, and I don't want to quit. I want more than ever to be on top of my life, in control. I do believe I have taken steps there, and, though I have a very long way to go, have started down that path once-and-for-all. I don't want to give up, I want to succeed. I want to make something of myself, I want to do this for me. I want to save me.

But there is this piece of me, this black, sad, cold piece of me that believes I just can't win. And I'm feeling it. I feel like I am going to lose, no matter what I do. I work as hard as I can and I don't lose a pound; who is to say that's going to be different no matter how much I keep that up? Where is my proof that I am doing this right?

I just want to cry; to curl in a ball and cry. And I have no one to turn to.

I feel like such a loser.

It's a catch-22. I refuse to give up, I refuse to lose, but I clearly am not winning.

I don't know what to do with me.

You Went a Sold Your Soul

Laughing With

I don't really know what to write this post about.

All day last Wednesday, I freaked out and cried, looked for a new job, and basically berated myself to nothing.

All day on Saturday, I freaked out and cried, got angry, and learned that what happened to me to make me this way wasn't my doing, and apparently I can change it.

I'm still really angry; have been for quite a few years. But, I'm also kind of hopeful, for the first time thinking maybe I can do this. It may not turn out exactly as I wanted, I may not check off every goal, and I may not do it all in the time in which I originally planned, but by the end of this thing, by my birthday, I am going to have done so much, changed so much, become someone good.

Right now, I'm not feeling it as much. I'm a little down. I have this feeling that Allison is pulling another one of her, "fuck off, I don't want to talk to you" things, which essentially leaves me friendless. Amanda is shacked up at home in Springfield with a broken leg, Kaitlin and Chetara live in Chicago...and now Allison doesn't want to talk to me because of something, although I don't know what. She won't talk to me to tell me, so I just get to be in the dark.

I'm feeling a little hurt, right this second; like I need a good hug. Like I could cry and mourn my failed friendships and feel lonely. I feel really lonely. Essentially, I'm alone. I have to figure out my life all on my own, figure out the mistakes someone else made and right them for myself, figure out how to be an adult when I'm not really sure what that is anymore. I have to do that by myself, with no help from anyone, and I'm seriously feeling it. The last thing I need right now is someone to check-out on me because of something I can't name. The last thing I need is for a friend to just stop talking when what I need is to talk. The last thing I need is to be abandoned yet again by someone who is supposed to love me.

And here it is.

Every time this happens to me, I get broken, I get hurt. I get all weepy and sad and my mom pours me a glass of wine and buys me a self-help book. I get all depressed and upset, because surely I'm the reason I have no real friends; surely it's me that's the problem; surely there's something wrong with me. I go inside, and I stay inside. I watch some Eddie Izzard, I laugh like I don't feel any thing but joy, I act cheerful and smile and call it okay, call it whatever. And on the inside, I feel hollow. I build up a nice, pretty, smiling facade on the outside. I quote Eddie and Python and laugh with people I wish would love me enough never to leave me, because I have a hole from where someone already has. I make it seem like I'm this tough little thing, fragile on the inside, but stone on the out. And I always smile, smile, smile. Laugh, laugh, laugh.

It makes me feel cheap.

I'm so tired of feeling hollow. About as tired as I am of being ignored by people who I have put time, love, and effort into. Whose company I cherish. Whose friendship is one of my very few lifelines.

I'm tired of sobbing and calling myself a problem, a failure, a fuck-up.

I'm tired of people fucking off, because they can't face their emotions.

I don't deserve to be put on the back burner. I don't get to be benched. I've put in more effort into maintaining my friendships than any normal person should have to, because I want so much--too much--for them to stay strong.

I'm tired of being bruised and of being tentative about who I am or how I feel because I'm too scared to lose a friend.

I'm tired of being tired.

So, sorry, but today I get mad. Today, I say no more. You want to be my friend, you'd better fucking mean it. Because, I'll go through anything to get to you. If you aren't up to par, if you can't claim to do the same, if you think you'll drop me and disappear somewhere down the line...just don't fucking mess with me. I'm in it to win it, corny as it sounds. This is my fucking life, and I'm done being beaten down by my own self-confidence; I'm done thinking I'm not good enough; I'm done thinking there is something wrong.

We can have a casual friendship, I'm not saying we can't. I want to be clear that I'm not cutting out every person because they don't want what I want, per say. I don't need every person to be "that person" for me, but I want to make it clear that if you're saying that's who you want to be, I'm saying you'd better at least have a conversation with me when you change your mind. I don't take being ignored so easily. Talk to me, do just fuck off.

If I'm going to be alone, I'm going to be happy, comfortable, and confident about it. I'm not taking bullshit anymore. Be my friend or don't, but at least be open and be clear. If there is something going on, I want to talk about it. And, if you just don't like me, that sounds like a personal problem, and you need to move on.

I'll move on too.

Like You Know You Do

Today, I had my coffee and hit the gym. I didn't do so well on the second bit, I was too fucking hot but with the fan on me I was so bloody cold I felt like I couldn't breathe. I don't know what's happening with that, but I cut it short and decided what I really need is a long night of sleep. Probably.

I got up and did my "Aha Moment" with the Mutual of Omaha. I hope it is up to par, is inspiring, is any good at all. I didn't really talk about what I wanted to talk about, necessarily, but I did talk about my memoir, which is all the more for me. Unfortunately, we got to talking about my stand up comedy goal, one which I am still unsure about. The reason I wanted to do it is because it's the ultimate act of confidence and knowing who you are. I mean, the whole point of this exercise was for me to figure that out, and then live my life like I know it. Live my life like it's happening. A good way for me to epitomize doing that, is to do comedy, to laugh about the irony and insanity of life. That for me is what living is, and that's why I made it my goal.

Of course, thinking about it right now makes me both want to do it and think that there is no way. I don't know if I should still make it my goal, I don't know if it's something I can do. I just want to laugh and enjoy my life, because it's short and it's often like sweet and sour sauce, shocking but too sweet to stop eating. I want to celebrate what I have, what I've been allowed to have, and what I can have. I want to go up in front of people and share some stories, relate, and laugh at it all. I'd love to be a stand-up comedian, but what I really want is to be a really happy, together me. If I can do that, I think I can do comedy, but I'm just not so sure who me is, and thus I'm not so sure about that goal.

But, today is the day to take a step toward that person, to take a step forward after a long, long lapse of standing still. I can no longer stand on that dark street, eighteen and stupid, lost in a neighborhood I've never been, at four in the morning. I know I am not that girl anymore. I grew out of that. I don't get lost like that, never, anymore. But, I still feel like I'm that lost. And, I'd really like to find that woman inside me who knows her way around, and doesn't get stuck on a street corner thinking, "I'm fucked."

I have a good sense of direction, I have a good idea of what I want, and I have the inclination to believe that I can.

So, I'm saying fuck it to feeling like shit. Fuck it to feeling so lonely. Fuck it to laughing only to cover up my sadness, my fear, my insecurity.

I'm laughing for real; I'm laughing at life.

I'm laughing with god or without.

And I'm getting it together.

I have people to forgive, molehills to overcome, wrongs to right.

One day I will move mountains.

Today, I move me.

It's All Out, All Out on Me

Mean Mr. Mustard ;P

I feel like reiterating goals.

- Get to 170 pounds.

- Get into the Navy.

- Finish the List of Stories I've been working on for years.

- Learn French.

- Learn every bone in the body.

- Do a stand-up set.

Those are the sort of important ones. :)

The New and Improved Selfish

The truth is that I don’t remember my childhood.

I don’t know if I don’t remember because I spent so much of it in my head, blocking out the bad, isolating myself into myself so that I didn’t have to think about how much I hated my life. Or, maybe I don’t remember because I never had a childhood. My childhood was spent playing with myself, making up things and playing them out with no one but me. I wrote stories and created characters, and, though I never had an imaginary friend, I didn’t need one because I was already in my head. There was no point to something imaginary when I could play both parts; be both myself and my friend. So, the things I remember from my childhood are fragmented, they are shards of memory here and there, and they pierce just like shards of glass. It hurts me to remember, whether good or bad, whether happy memory or sad memory or just memory at all. The way my dad smiled, the way my siblings played, the way my mom seemed to check out when what I really needed was someone to check in, make sure I was okay. I remember those things and I hurt, and I don’t know why. I cry. I miss things I don’t remember having, feelings I don’t remember feeling; and I cry.

None of it makes sense to me, none of my behavior. I know why I am stuck in my head, why I spend most of my time talking to myself. I understand that, I understand how I became that person, that person that I hate so much being, who can’t live in the real world because it’s more comfortable inside my head. I hate that I rely on pantomimes to get me through the day, because I am bored, or lonely, without them. Because, there is nothing in my life nearly as worthwhile as the things that I can create. I hate that person, because I want so badly to live my life, to be in the world, to feel the things that other people feel and to not concentrate so hard on the imaginary things because I am so focused on reality. I don’t know how to do that, and I don’t know how to remember good things, real things, and not feel some sort of loss. I don’t know how to remember at all. And I don’t know how to stop crying.

I wasn’t given a childhood, not really. Now I’m being told that I have to be my own parent, after I spent the past twenty years trying to raise myself, I’m being told that’s the only way I can win. That’s the only way I can ever have what I want, the only way I can ever start moving towards reality and out of my head. By doing the thing that I’ve felt like I’ve had to do all my life, raise myself. Bring myself up to be the person I want to be.

I feel like that’s such bullshit. Like that’s so fucking unfair. Now that it’s understood how messed up my family made me, they are officially checking out. The only thing I have left is myself, because they were too selfish to raise me when they could, and now the child that has been alone all her life is the adult that has to go back and fix someone else’s mistakes. It’s so fucked up. Why couldn’t some body have done something about this when I was ten? Or fifteen? Or, fuck, twenty? Why didn’t they figure it out, why didn’t they stop the isolation, stop the mistreatment, stop the segregation and just raise me the way I deserved? And, why can’t they try to be there now, when it’s truly my life on the line? Why does it always have to be me?

I feel like I don’t have anything good to say anymore. I’m angry and lonely and probably disillusioned. And I just don’t have anything nice to say anymore.

I want someone to fucking care, someone who is supposed to fucking care. Instead, I get myself; and, with her, I don’t even know where to begin. How do you raise yourself when you don’t know how to do it, when you’ve fucked it up all along? How do you fix yourself, knowing that you have no choice, that you’re the only one who can, but you don’t know where to begin?

Furthermore, how do you fix it when you honestly believe that someone is out there, waiting for you to take a step forward, just to take it all away? All my life it has just been me, I got that conformation today. I always thought I was disillusioned, that I was making it up because I wanted to believe I was stronger than I am. But, the truth is, there has only just been me. I was left to take care of myself, because no one else could or would. And, all my life, I have believed that I have never really done anything for me. When I do, I feel like someone else always finds a way to take the credit for what I’ve done for myself. I spent years being that persons go-to therapist, I spent years raising myself and trying to stand on my own because they couldn’t even help themselves. I spent years holding myself up, and all this time they have been telling me how great of a job they did raising me, taking care of me, holding me up. They didn’t. I did. I did all of those things for myself, because I was given no choice but to be my own advocate. And now, when I absolutely cannot fall back on anyone else, when all my feelings of being alone are confirmed, when it’s been laid out that all my suspicions of raising myself were true, I’m actually scared that if I succeed, if I pull myself up and make myself good and whole and new, that all the credit will go to someone else.

That’s honestly what’s holding me back. It’s that, or a really good cover for some deeper fear of failure, I don’t know for sure. But, what’s coming to mind as I think about fixing myself for myself is hearing how well of a job my mother did raising me, when it was me raising me all along. I want the fucking credit. I want the credit for who I am. Good or bad, liked or not, I want to be the one who takes all the credit for who I turn out to be. Because, I fucking did this. This was all me. There was no one else.

If I spent years in denial that I was the only one in this for me, I’m not anymore. I fucking did this, whether you like who I’m becoming or not. Whether I fix me or don’t. I don’t even care; I fucking raised me. This one goes to me.

There was no one else. They didn’t want me or didn’t know how.

I want me. I may not quite know how, I may not know exactly what needs to be done, or exactly how I need to get what I deserve, or exactly how to bring myself up right, but I am the one who will figure it out. I am the one who will do this, and not for anyone else. Not for my family. They weren’t here. They didn’t do their job.

Everything from this point on is for me. Don’t tell me it’s selfish; don’t tell me I’m wrong. No one else wants to take me, no one else wants to fix me, no one else wants to finally raise me, so I’m going to do it for me. Everything, every-fucking-thing I do...I do it for me. So, don’t say thank you, don’t say good job, don’t even fucking say that you like who I’m becoming. It isn’t for you.

This one goes to me.

If I Have a Chance

I've always thought that if the world was just a place where we each learned the same lesson over and over, I didn't want to live here. The idea of retracing steps, of backtracking, of being taught the same moral of the same story...it's unappealing to me. I want to learn new things, move forward and discover things unimagined to me. Feelings I hadn't felt before, theories I hadn't thought up before, lessons from the next story I have yet to live. I refuse to live in a world where the same things are taught, in a world that is circular, cyclical; in a world where I don't learn anything new at all.

So, I guess I should just go a head and knock off, because that's exactly the world I am living in. The same lesson over and over, the same problems, the same fears, the same freak-outs and obsessions, the same scared idiocy that creates the cycle and puts me back where I started: never having learned a thing. So, I'm back at the beginning, heart palpitating, stomach churning, not knowing how to move forward and having to relearn a lesson I don't think I've ever actually learned.

I don't know how to move forward. I'm so stuck stepping backwards, over and over, that I never learned the motion for stepping forward.

I should have written it down.

Remember, this was just supposed to be temporary? Remember, this was supposed to be the few months chance you needed to change? Remember, this was a life or death, this was an all or nothing, this was your last free chance to get it together? When did that change? When did this become permanent, when did I stop trying to move forward? Did I ever start?

I feel like I don't know myself any more, and, even if I did, I certainly wouldn't like myself. I feel like this is a all just a sham, and it's never going to get better, because I can't get better. But, I came here to get better, to change myself, to lose the weight, and to move on. I haven't done one of those things. It's May, I've been at this for months now, and not a thing has changed. Not even myself.

This is all really thick, like heavy cream; just weighty and dense, and I'm sorry for that. But hold on, stay with me, and let me tell you a story.

This Note is Legal Tender for All Debts, Public and Private

I have no self-control.

It's true, don't tell me it's not. One of the main reasons I want to go into the military is so they might instill in me some fucking discipline, because I have none.

I have cash, I have money in my account, I think I have means and I spend it even though the voice in the back of my head tells me I need to hold on to it; hold on to something, in case. Because, the voice in the back of my head believes in the worst-case-scenario, and always tells me they are right around the corner. Bad things are always going to happen to me, it says; I should be more careful. But, being in control of my money, being able to spend when and where I want, it makes me feel good. Makes me feel powerful, especially over that voice. In the end, of course, I sit, stomach churning, worried about whether or not I'll have money in the morning. I knew I would end up there all along, but I did it anyway. I spent the money and found myself so SOL. Honestly, I don't have a reason or an excuse for doing it. Other than that I want desperately to feel normal, to feel like I have all those comforting things, if only for a few hours. So, I spend the money to feel that way, and end up feeling worse in the end.

When I realized I was going to be getting paid for working the census, I realized I might finally be able to get some of my luxuries back, if only in small portions. Going to the doctor to get back on something to control my allergies, going to the eye doctor and getting back in contacts. Granted, both of those things needed to happen. Not necessarily yesterday, though. I know I am behind on my healthcare, but the eye doctor thing probably could have waited. I tend to run on the impatient side of things and went for it anyway. Before I even got my first paycheck from the census. Just after I got the smallest check ever from Borders and spent part of it partying on Saturday with Allison. It probably could have waited, but I didn't want to wait, I wanted something good after so much bad in the past week. I wanted something good and I ended up paying more than I expected, naturally after the exam had already taken place, which meant I kind of had no way out of it. So, I gave them what I could and left myself very little to get by on until today, when I was supposed to get my check from the Census Bureau.

I think we know where this is going. I didn't get paid.

I have a little less than a quarter of a tank, I have six dollars, and I don't know when I am going to get my money. Thus, heart palpitations, churning stomach, the urge to sob until I dry up and die.

Fuck my life.

No, fuck me. Because, I knew better. I knew I should have rescheduled my stupid eye doctor appointment. After I realized my insurance card was actually just a discount card, I should have rescheduled. I even thought, you know, I should really rethink this. But, I didn't. I said to myself, it won't be that expensive. Well, it was. And, naturally, I gave them all I could give, when really, I should have saved some for me. For my gas tank, just in case I didn't get paid today because of some stupid error somewhere in the system that is our government. A number error, I'm sure. An error that probably falls on me too.

All of this wouldn't be so bad if this weren't my life for the past four years.

But, this is my life. This is who I am. I'm a horrible accountant. I should never get to handle my own cash again.

Unfortunately, I am the only one who can.

And, I am the only one who can stop it from happening again.

By learning a fucking lesson I've been telling myself to learn for four years.

Four years ago, I was telling myself the same damn thing: you gotta learn the lesson. So learn it already. And then, I would be fine for a little while, until it happened again. I'd say the same thing, believing I'd finally learned it. This went on until it got so bad that I was scared of getting evicted, that I was unable to remain in Chicago. I moved here, certain I'd fixed me, or at least was on the right track to fixing me, for the last time. I moved here, back to Oklahoma, where I really just don't fit in, positive this time I would learn.

And now, right now, who has fucking learned a thing?

Not I.

I came here to get it together, to lose the weight, and to fucking get started on life. And, yet again, for the past seven months, I have been doing what I've been complaining of doing for the past four years: standing-bloody-still. If this isn't proof, I don't know what the fuck is.

I can't do this, I can't fucking do it. The last thing I want is to lose my life, but this isn't a life, so I'd better start making it one.

I know I go through this every few months. I know that I essentially told my mom if I didn't get it together I was going to end it. I was serious, and I am serious now. I am so tired of standing still. I am so tired of fucking up. I am so tired of never learned. Moreover, I am blooding fucking tired of spouting these same things, over and over, talking about changing myself and learning my lesson. I am so tired.

I am not going to kill myself, so stop worrying about that, because I am not ready to die. There is no reason for me to, I have a whole life ahead worth living. It's this life that isn't worth living, this life that I have to kill. This life that I have to change, and I have to change it now, or it will never happen for me. I know it won't, because nothing says it will but me.

I'm ready to change, I'm ready to be done. I'm ready to let got of all the shit in my past and move on. I'm ready to do whatever it takes, I don't care anymore. Whatever it takes.

I counted up all of my change. I have enough to get a tank of gas, now I just need to figure out how to get my damn money for the work I've done.

I'm getting my life together, because it will kill me if I don't. Maybe I won't be holding a smoking gun, or an empty bottle, maybe my heart will still be beating when I'm dead, but it'll kill me. Because, this, who I am right now, is not living. This is not the life that I need to lead. If these keeps up, if I stay this way forever, I will die having never known who I could be. Having never learned this lesson and having never moved on to the next. I will die having never lived the life I set out to, because I couldn't figure out how to climb this mountain and start the downhill slope towards who I want to be.

Seven weeks to July. Seven weeks to take all that I've learned and all that I still need to learn and put it into use. Seven weeks, and I will have moved forward. I will have moved.

Would You Let Me Know

I'm So Sad

I worked at the Old Navy on State Street in Chicago for a year, and, though I hated the job, I met some of the most amazing people while working there. Tranesha Palms was one of them.

Yesterday, her ex and father of her two-year-old son, followed her into the basement break room and shot her to death. He then killed himself, I assume because he was a coward.

I wasn't the best of friend with Tranesha, but she touched my life, and for the better. She always encouraged me to be strong, to go for what I wanted, and to get up and enjoy life. The last few times I spoke to her, we were planning a girls' night that never happened. I moved back to Oklahoma; I never got to go out and have a night with a friend who was a bright, brilliant woman, just working to make a better life for her son. I know I can't ever go back and go have that night at the club with Tranesha, but it doesn't matter. How she effected me is still the same. I truly feel that, having known her, I am a better person.

I moved away, from Chicago, from Old Navy, with the plan that I was finally going to get my life started. I moved away planning on putting everything that wasn't concrete behind me and moving forward. I moved away, and all I want right this second is to be back in Chicago, to be back with the friends who are mourning this loss and who will have to return to that store were she had her last breath. I can't imagine what it is like for them, who were still working there, who were still close to her, who still had laughs to have and work to avoid with her. I miss those people terribly. All of a sudden I want to be back in that city, living the life I had, with those people. I want it to be last summer, when we were making plans to be better friends and the sun was shining and there was still life for Tranesha. I want to be with Chetara, who knew her better than I did, and with Nicole, who I wish I was still close to. I miss the way things were before I moved, because it seems to me that the world has just turned upside down these past few months, and right now I want it to stop.

I want to go to her funeral. I want to be there with my friends.

I don't have the money, I can't go. If I had the cash to drop on getting my car up there and back, I would. I know I would have a place to stay, I know I would have people to be with; I want to be with them. But I can't.

Tonight is my best friend's 21st birthday. What I can do is this: I can go and I can do the thing that Tranesha and I talked about. I can have a fun night at the club, be with my best friend, and cherish my life. It seems wrong, but she would have wanted me to go. In fact, I know she would have told me to go, if I had asked her.

What happened to her was the definition of unfair. She did not deserve this fate. Her son does not deserve to be an orphan. She will be terribly missed. My heart goes out to her family, to her mother, to her boy; to her close friends; to all the people at Old Navy. There will never be another like her. So many people have been affected by her love and friendship. Our lives are changed for having known her.

Tonight, I am toasting one to her, and celebrating her life along with three others: Allison's, Amanda's, and mine. Tonight isn't just about the birth of my best friend or the death of a good one. Tonight is about living.

Rest in Peace, Tranesha.

<3

Don't Tell Me I'm Pretty

You have to face your emotions if you ever want to overcome them.

Most of the time, I don't even know why I cry. The tears just star falling and I sit there thinking, why is this happening? I know for the most part, sometimes you just have to cry, but it feels like sometimes is always and crying is just too cliche anymore. I feel like the poster-girl for running mascara and self-indulgent sobbing. "Oh, I'm not pretty; oh, I'm not smart." Oh, I'm fucking fed up with it. But, it's still how I feel most of the time.

Not in college, uneducated, not clever enough to solve a problem any old idiot probably could. Probably has. Probably wrote a book about it that someone else is telling me I should read.

I have acne, I never bother with my hair, I wear glasses because I have been too poor for contacts, so even if I put make-up on, you can't see it. No boyfriend, no prospects. People telling my friends how gorgeous they are, people saying "wow". People don't say "wow" to me. Unless I'm being a bitch in an unwarranted situation.

No, I don't always feel like this, but I feel like this now, and I don't know what else to do. I can sit here and cry and go to bed or I can type this up and cry and go to bed. I chose the latter because it at least seemed productive.

Maybe I'm just tired, I certainly feel drained, I don't know. But I don't feel pretty, I don't feel smart, I don't feel anything but worthless and crap.

I knew I should have gone to the gym today, then at least I could lie to myself and say I'm making progress. This sure as fuck doesn't feel like progress. It just feels like shit.

Tomorrow I want to be happy. I have so much to do, people paying me to do so much, and I can't say "no". I don't want to say no, believe me, I'm happy for something to do, but tonight I don't want to do any more.

Yeah, so this whole post was self-indulgent, pitiful, emo-fied goop. But at least I said how I really felt.

What I really want to say is this: fuck them. Fuck everyone. Everyone who says they are my friend and turns their back, everyone who flirts with me just to ignore me tomorrow, everyone who claims they miss me but don't bother to call. Everyone who thinks I am all of these things I am feeling, because they're just bastards. They have to just be bastards. They have to be absolute fuck-all bastards.

So, then, why am I still crying?

Why I am still feeling so absolutely crap?

Whatever.

Just fucking forget it. 

I'm going to bed.

Isn't It Just Like That?

Our Cracking Bones Make Noise

Amanda was in a car accident.

This isn't new news. This happened two weeks ago today. I didn't write about it when it happened...I tried, but the words came out too stoic and I just couldn't find anything else to say.

Curiously, the week after it happened was one of the best weeks I've had in a long time. It isn't really logical, she was in the hospital and pretty badly injured, looking at a six-month recovery in another state. I shouldn't have had a good week. I shouldn't have been happy and riding high, but I was. I spent nearly everyday in the hospital room, just hanging out with a friend I was afraid I had lost, and every one was grateful and focused on the injured. It was nice. I felt good. I was there and I was wanted, and I could focus my energy on making Amanda comfortable and helping the family out in anyway I could. I could listen to people when they worried or needed to vent, I could be a shoulder to cry on, I could be a voice of reason. It was incredibly reassuring for me; I felt useful and good, and I liked it.

It didn't start out that way.

The car accident happened on a day in which I felt everything was finally getting back to normal. A few weeks earlier I had written a note to the other baristas at Seattle's Best, essentially berating them for not doing their jobs. To be fair, they weren't, and the note was fairly merited, if not a little irrational at the time it was written. I probably could have cooled down some. Waiting a while, busied myself with another task, before I wrote the letter. Although, I don't know that I would have cooled down all that much. I was so angry I was shaking, so angry I thought I would cry. I felt personally attacked by everyone around me, and though it wasn't true, it didn't help my composure. So, the letter came out a bit out of favor of the person it wasn't actually meant for. That person was Amanda. She was furious with me; uninvited me to her birthday, pretty much told me to go fuck myself. I explained to her why it was written the way it was and that I wasn't thinking of her or of Kirstie at the time it was written, but she was still angry. She was still angry that I was so angry, she was hurt by the sum of all my hurt, wrapped up in a mean little package.

But, she got over it. We talked, I explained; she talked, she expressed. She was open with me about her anger and we moved on. I was back on for her birthday, although she did tell me she didn't think I would be invited to the road trip pending Kirstie's anger (at a note that she wasn't even around to be targeted in). It bothered me that I was put on the side in favor of Kirstie, but I was working on getting over that too.

On the Friday before the accident, Amanda came in early and we got on just fine. She wanted to buy a dress and was in and out of the store looking for some feedback and someone to shop with her. Kirstie came in, fresh from her trip to New York, and she hugged me and behaved like there was nothing sour between us, so I was on the rise. She disappeared a little later, to the displeasure of Amanda who couldn't get a hold of her, but everything seemed fairly back on track. We were all planning to go on the trip to Springfield together for Amanda's birthday, we were all smiling and in pleasant moods, everything seemed right in the world, like pieces of a puzzle were back in place after a bigger, meaner kid had come by and tossed them about. And then on Saturday, at two-thirty in the morning, Amanda fell asleep at the wheel and rolled her car.

Of course, at two-in-the-morning, I was asleep.

I woke up on Saturday in a good mood, plans for the week nearly set, a good night's rest behind me, with every reason to smile. Until I opened Facebook and saw Kirstie's status: "Amanda rolled her car... Waiting by the phone isn't good enough for me. To the hospital I go."

I called Kirstie, no answer. I called Amanda, no answer. I text messaged both and received no response. My fear bled into anger, annoyance, and frustration--as it tends to. If Amanda were seriously injured, surely someone would have called? Unless, of course, no one wanted me around an injure or be-coma'd Amanda. That was the thought that stuck with me.

Why didn't I get a call? Why did I find out through Facebook?

Surely I am not the only one who would find learning a good friend was in a car accident over Facebook a bit disheartening. What kind of friendship did I have with these girls if I was left in the dark when they needed friendship and love most? Needless to say, I was hurt.

From psychology I know that many of the thoughts passing through my head at the time were irrational. Don't give me the shit that "it isn't about me," because the rational person inside of me wasn't worried about me; it was fully aware of the skewed perception of my overlaying thoughts. I was worried about Amanda; but also about my friendships, and about the fabric of everything I had in Oklahoma being ripped apart but the sudden realization that none of it was true. People can blame me for being selfish in that time, but sitting in the dark, alone in my room, staring at a Facebook status message that could literally be life-altering...well, I can only imagine what anyone else in my shoes would have been thinking, about themselves or otherwise.

I was terrified, of so many things, and terror tends to breed anger when mixed with misunderstanding and lack of communication.

So, I went to the gym....I went to the gym and used my anger and frustration as fuel. It worked for the duration of my workout, but when I got home my attitude was once again diminishing into a sulking, slouched beast weighed down by hurt. That's when Raye called.

He told me about the accident, about her parents' wishes that she have few visitors in the first day out of surgery, about calling Kirstie because Kirstie had called Amanda when she'd flipped her car. I just listened quietly, let it sink in what had happened to my friend. I told Raye to let me know when I could come by, but ultimately decided to keep my distance.

I called Kirstie and left a message, simply stating that I had heard and was there if she needed to talk. Then I sat and stared at the wall for a while until the urge to feel something else overwhelmed me and I turned on an episode of Monty Python and tried to laugh it out. It's my mantra, I might as well've put it to use.

Kirstie called and spoke to me for less than two minutes. Essentially, she'd called Sam instead of me, probably because Sam is a closer friend of her's than I am, but the excuse was that he was a closer friend of Amanda's, and I wasn't really buying it. She hung up to call Sam, and I finally just asked, via text, why I didn't get called.

"It's not about you."

You're right. But, I don't think she would have been feeling the same if it had been the other way, if I had let her know from my Facebook status message. I know I would have never done that, no matter how malicious I was feeling toward her. I would have called her the moment I heard. I know that about myself, so maybe I can't understand it when that isn't the way other people work. Needless to say, I was feeling dejected. Someone I considered a very good friend was in a severe accident, and all of our friends where essentially telling me to stay away. I just don't know how I was supposed to feel. I wanted to be scared for Amanda, but I didn't have nearly enough information to know how bad it was. I went uninformed and unfocused. I felt like I wasn't a friend; I felt like I was nobody; I felt like I wasn't worthy of concern for someone I loved. I felt bad.

Sunday morning I caught Raye on Facebook and said I'd be by on Monday, because I had to work and I had to go to the gym and I just didn't think I'd have time. I felt deeply guilty and selfish. I knew it was a little bitchy of me, but I was feeling dejected and expecting several people to be there; I didn't want to be in the way, or feel like I was in the way, which I think is worse. So, I was going to stay away. I'm so glad I didn't.

I skipped the gym and hopped in the car. I grabbed caffeine for Raye and myself and brought Amanda a cup even though I thought she may not really need coffee. Coffee is a comfort, coffee makes us feel normal and successful and together...so I take coffee to people whom I don't know what to say. Coffee speaks volumes, and having brought something always makes us feel like we're doing something right, something to help, even if really all we're doing is caffeinating the severely injured.

Raye was the only person there when I walked in and Amanda was truly glad to see me. I started to get over it right that second, my attention settled on my friend, my desire to overcome bad feelings stronger than my anger. I just wanted to be there for my friend. To see what had happened, to understand what was happening, to assist in any way I can with whatever knowledge I have. So I sat next to her, and Raye left us alone, and Amanda and I chatted as she received morphine and fought off infection. Kirstie wasn't there. I don't know where she was. I was expecting her to be there, I was expecting to feel all kinds of unwanted, hurt feelings, I was expecting to realize this wasn't truly part of my story, just an anecdote, a name drop somewhere in my memoirs and a motivation to move on. I was expecting this situation to hardly include me and for it to mean nothing more for me than "I didn't come here to make friends...." I shouldn't have expected anything other than to see my friend, and my attitude changed right-fucking-there.

Hospitals have this effect on me; they make me want to work harder and do better and they motivated me to do something with my life. I love to be in hospitals, love to look at X-Rays and talk to patients and understand situations and diagnoses. I love the science and the humanity and even the florescent lighting and small spaces. I knew going to the hospital in itself was going to heal me just a little, if only until I walked into the room where Amanda lay. What I didn't expect was for the situation, for the broken bones and the smell of sanitizer and the gravity of reality, to heal me. I didn't expect that a girl with a cracked fibula and busted ankle, lying in a hospital bed, the farthest thing from helpless anyone can be, would heal me. I probably should have seen that coming. But we never see it coming.

I stayed as late as I could and went everyday after that (excluding Tuesday, because she had her second surgery, and she wasn't out by the time I had to work). I brought coffee and food, Eddie Izzard DVDs and even a stuffed bear that sings a Beatles song. But, what I really did was sit next to her, talk when she wanted to talk, watch TV and just be there for the hard parts and the silly ones. I watched her be strong when most of us would be depressed wrecks. I listened to her determination. I felt her gratitude at my presence and my own love for my friend growing with each passing hour of nurses stopping by, VACs sucking at her wounds, medication dripping into veins, and ortho techs in and out with machines meant for exercising otherwise stagnant muscles. Just to be next to her made me better, filled me with hope at her survival of this situation, of her growing physical and emotional strength. It made me better, knowing that I could be there, and it wasn't unnoticed. Raye, myself, her mother and father, we spent the most time in that room; knowing we were there helped her, gave her patience and reassurance, made her feel loved and so she returned it. "The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to have loved and be loved in return." I guess that's why it felt so good. I guess that's why it was so healing. I can't really explain it any better than that. I can't really put it into words. I knew I was loved, I knew my being there, my rationality and my humor, my desire to just chill, I knew that was appreciated. And I appreciated the opportunity. It made me better.

I know now, after all of it, that my relationship with Amanda is strong. I love her very much, I love who she is and the fun we have, I love what she thinks and how rational she is. I love just knowing she's my friend. No, I didn't come to Oklahoma to make friends for life. I didn't come to do anything but do what needed to be done so I could leave again. But, if I get Amanda's friendship out of it, it's a happy coincidence in my book. A very happy coincidence.

As far as Kirstie goes...that's another just as long story.

Kirstie hadn't been to the hospital much, and I could tell it was bothering both Amanda and Raye. It was bothering me too, since she basically declared herself Amanda's Borders Bestie, and then she just wasn't there. We felt like she was different since returning from New York, and I personally wasn't to impressed by her new behavior. Mostly, I was still a bit hurt by her actions toward me. I told myself it was silly to think she was purposefully cutting me out of the whole situation, but I didn't think I was wrong either. You see, she and Amanda had given us these nicknames a few months earlier, and frankly I wasn't too interested in being given a nickname, I was just interested in being me for once. But, I smiled and went along with it, even though I felt it was more a thing between the two of them than me. It was like an invite into a club I wasn't actually welcome into...that's sort of how it felt, being given a nickname essentially because they wanted something more out of their group than maybe I could give. But, the inclusion was nice, so I just let them play.

Well...apparently the inclusion was temporary, because the nickname I was assigned was reassigned shortly there after. The thing that is upsetting isn't the reassignment of the name. It wasn't a name a particularly wanted in the first place. I truly was just happy being Rachel. For the first time, I felt like I was being accepted for being Rachel...I didn't want to be somebody else. What hurt is that it was hidden from me. Maybe because Kirstie thought it would hurt my feelings to know I was no-longer than person in her eyes--a person who isn't actually me to begin with--or maybe she really was just trying to cut me out. I don't know. What I know is this: she covered it up. I figured it out anyway; I mean, it wasn't like she was terribly secretive about it. She just was never open about it. Add to it the fact that after the letter I wrote, she was angry with me, the feeling of love I once thought I felt from her was strained if not disjointed. I think she was detaching from me. And, that's okay. What isn't okay is just cutting somebody out when you've told them you'll be there, no matter the shit they give or how much they push away. What isn't okay is closing off. What isn't okay is not communicating. Sam can have the nickname. Sam can be the bestie. I never had delusions that Kirstie was my best friend. All I wanted were people around me that could be supportive and fun. The kind of people whom, with their spontaneity and joy towards life, could help me capture my will to live and help me move forward from this precipice I've been walking for years now. Instead, I got hurt when I probably shouldn't have gotten hurt. I've been abandoned--many, many times. It hurts like hell and it's my worst fear, but I can cope with it...I can grow from it--I must grow from it. I must overcome it and realize that people don't abandon you because of you; most of the time, people abandon because of people. I think I am starting to get that.

So, no, I didn't move back to Oklahoma to make friends for life. To make besties who would stick it out with me to the bitter end. If it happens, than I will take it and the feeling I get when I go away--as I know I will--with a grain of salt. If it doesn't, that isn't the worst thing that could happen. I will make friends everywhere I go. Not all of them--no, certainly, most of the--are going to be lifers. But they come when they are needed, they heal as they are meant to, and I go off better; hopefully they do too.

I have learned this: that I don't want to love unless they want to love, that I don't want to work on friendship unless they want to work on friendship. I know that there are some things about me that aren't perfect, I know that I get too hurt too easily. But, I also know that if I don't start finding people who want to be my friends, who want to be friends with Rachel, as she is, than I will never find the right people I need in my life. Let alone the kind of people I want to love and to know. So, if you don't want to be my friend, I don't want to be yours. Just say it, and I will move on. Yeah, it might hurt me a little, but everything hurts me a little, it's just part of who I am. I get over it, I move on, and I find someone else who wants everything I want. I find someone like Amanda, or like Raye. I impress people by being the true friend, the loyalist I am. I can be that for you, but only if you're willing to do the same. Only if you're willing to be open. Only if you want me too.

So as far as it goes, Kirstie, friendship, life...I'm done looking out for the life-changers, the things that will make me, the friends of a lifetime. Things will come when they come. Changes will happen because that is the nature of change. I am open to anything. Any body. Any idea.

I am focusing on the people I know love me, am allowing myself to be open and kind to the people around me, and am worrying only about those things that only I can change. I will get my weight off, I will do everything I said I would, and I will move on...it's already happening...I can feel it.

I want to be good, I want to be kind, I want to be smart, I want to be better.

I'm getting to be everything I ever wanted to be. I'm actually going to get there.

We're Breakable--But, I'm Not Breaking Anymore

Always Late with the News

I've been an absolutely terrible memoir writer. I think the point of this blog thing was so I would write at least a few times a week. Look at me not doing that. Not doing that at all....

So much has happened. If March was a month of movement, than April is a month of battling the urge to stand still. So many things, strange and far too real, have happened already, and I know I should be writing it all down as it happens, but I just can't focus my brain.

This means I am going to have to start back tracking, going to have to start telling a story. Suck, right? And here I am, a writer, not too happy about telling a story. Um...I think that was the point, dear.

It's good, though. So many monumental things have happened, things that have both shown me my strength and will work to show me my stamina. If I can make it through these next few months, if I can battle and come out victorious, then I truly have accomplished something--I have become that person I am so ready to be.

A few things I am going to start writing about, probably essay-ish style, trying to link things and create circular thoughts, make sense of what has happened recently with what was holding me back in the past. Really make a life like mine coherent and...well, memoir-like. That is my goal as far as writing goes, to get better at the analyzing part and get on paper all those things that have happened in a beautiful, creative, intelligent way. I think I can, and I also see it as a huge fucking prospect that is really, really scary.

So, here are those few things:

Friendship--how they come back into our lives, how we track them down, how we hold on to them, my history with friendship, and the friends I have. I think each will really need their own little post because each is a story in itself. I don't know how this is going to work, but I think I'd better just stick to chronological.

Money--my debt, how I feel about my debt, finances, getting control only to lose control than release that maybe I'm in more control than I thought...it's a bit of a mess, I know.

My Job--Starbucks, Borders, my career choice, the navy.

Family--siblings, each their own little bit I think, and my mother.  My father is his own thing I have yet to confront.

Outside Sources--therapy, celebrities, television and literature...you know, those things.

It's kind of a vague checklist, but I suppose I have to get into detail in the essays/posts, so I might as well be vague now. Keep the surprise, yes?

I don't know how I am going to do it anymore. But, I have been told not to worry how, but to think on the completed outcome, and see it for what it is. The how will work itself out. So I've been told.

I start tomorrow. Tonight I am going to bed. Tonight I am exhausted from this week.  I think I will talk about it tomorrow....

I had a good week last week. It was nice, I felt great. Suddenly on Monday I came crashing down. Don't know how this happened, but it did. I should probably write about that to begin with.

This is going to suck. It is going to be a lot of work. But, I think it's something I need to do, something I need to work on, something I need to face and fess up to...I need to analyze my life. Wasn't that the point of this all? I need to move forward.

My Life is a Work in Progress