I Used to Be My Own Protection But Not Now 'Cause My Mind Has Lost Direction Somehow

I didn't want to tell anyone anything.

If I did, if I actually said it, then that would be acknoweldging an actual event. It would become real.

So it took me four hours to actually admit it. Out loud.

My grandfather died.






He liked to tell little birdie stories before each person opened thier Christmas presents. My dad started doing it too after awhile. I used to hate waiting for the story to be over....

"A little birdie told me that you were looking for....."





The dining room was where most residents were. my grandother was in there too, insisting that she wasn't hungry. My mother cut up her ham and because she went to the trouble, Gramma ate much of it. She's always been a finicky eater, not able to do much once her stomach is feeling the least bit out of wack.

Something I probably inherited from her, I suppose.

When it seemed like she really wasn't going to eat anymore, we got ready to go elsewhere. And for the breifest of seconds, I had this thought......that gee, Grampa could be just taking a nap or sitting around in his room. But then again, he'd never leave Gramma during a meal. Be on his own while she played bingo, yes. But they always ate together.

The Boy and I stood most of the time by her table. Boy insisted that he wanted to stand after being in the car for two hours. I just couldn't bring myself to sit in one of the two chairs pulled up next to my grandmother. Because Grampa would be sitting on that side in his wheelchair and if I sat down that acknoweldged......but it had already been acknowledged.

When we left to head out the door, we made a kind of processional through the hallways, all of us following my grandmother as he went to her room. And my mixed up thoughts wondered, is this a foreshadowing of some kind? A showing of what came later as far as lines go?

And was that feeling, that instant sad feeling before I left on Thanksgiving, that feeling that had me glancing back after I'd said goodbye to Grampa for the second time, glancing back to his bent figure, leaning his head on his hand......was that a foreshadowing?

Was that intuition, that had me glancing back over my shoulder as I left? The last image I have of him, tired and discontent, leaning his head on one hand, staring down.......

I didn't look in his room as we left. His nametag was still on the door......and the rage that I had expected to boil up (because I had figured that they wuld have ripped it off, shoved another person in there already because that's the way the world works)fell into some sort of numbness. They hadn't replaced him.






He once showed me a picture that hung over his desk in their old apartment. It was a big balck and white one of a very pretty dark haired girl. "Who do you think that is?" he asked me.

"Well," I said carefully. "It kinda looks like aunt Dianne.....but her clothes are older so....is that Gramma?"

"Yes it is. Prettiest girl I ever saw."

From the sounds of it, it was love at first sight. She was 18, he was about 25. Three months later they were married. It would have been 70 years next April.





Doppelganger told me that it's ok to let myself be upset. She lost her grandfather about a month and a half ago. She said she knew she tried to hold it in but that didn't work.

That if I'm as much of a Scorpio as she is, I try to keep it all inside, because I feel like crying's a weakness....like I have to be the strong one. Cool and calm, at least when there is sadness.

I knew that. I'd gone along to my great-uncle's funeral mainly to support my mother. She needed me and I couldn't cry then because I had to hold her up.

I was the ice queen all weekend. I showed joy but nothing else. Stayed up late with Boy talking and playing games and watching movies so I would be exhausted and go right to sleep instead of thinking.

And whenever anyone caught me staring off into space, they'd ask, are you ok? And that mask slides over my face. "I'm fine."




He used to call me "Jen dear." And every single time I would go to visit them when they were still living on their own, he would at some point pull me over to the corner wall by the bathroom and have me stand up against the wall. And hten he would mark off my height in pen. The last few times we did that, my height hadn't really changed at all....but he still marked the spot on the wall.




I came home from taking a short walk with The Boy and found my parents discussing headstones. As I slowly put my coat and scarf and sweatshirt in my room, I tried to focus on other things.

And when I came back out, those papers were out of sight.

Out of sight but definitely not out of mind.





My parents were talking to me after we ate dinner one night. The topic was of course my grandparents.

And Dad said, "You may believe it or not but there was never a time where my father didn't ask about you. He was always thinking about you."




I barely remember a time when he wasn't bent over....but I missed the times when he could still walk.

I thought he was strange for many years.......I was such a stupid child.





It was a memorial service. Pictures, flowers, a folded American flag and a small podium to speak from. In that sense, I was tankful that the last vision I have of my grandafather was that tired and melancholy figure in the nursing home. He was still existing, he was still in this realm, though he'd changed from who I'd grown up with.

The funeral home smelled medicinal, like a million bad chemicals that I didn't want to know about.

Gramma came in crying. This continued as people made a line over to her, to hug and say I'm sorry before taking seats behind her.

When I sat down, I looked around me, hardly believing that we were there. But we all were.

The director was wearing shoes that were much too long for him. They made him look like he had long, floppy, troll feet. Why was he wearing such weird shoes?

Why were we here? Why were we laughing at memories and stories even though it hurt? Why was there now a wet drop on the handout they'd given me? Why does Boy keep rubbing my damn shoulder?

When we go back, we won't have to stop in two rooms anymore. No more wet kisses on my forehead or cheek. No singing at random. No more "sacre numdi chrishan rouge." And I never even asked what that meant.

And as I listened to the memories, I realized that there was a hell of alot that I didn't know about my grandfather. I didn't know he was called Senator due to some funny stunt my uncle Dick pulled in Virginia.





And everyone keeps asking, "How are you?" or "How are you doing?" And there's only so many times you can say "Ok" or "I'm fine."

And it's said in an almost bewildered tone. Why wouldn't I be fine? And then you remember.

they mean well......all of them mean well. But the real and cyber hugs, the I-love-you's, the I'm-sorry's, all of them culminate into one giant response after the 30th time someone asks, "How are you doing?"

And instead of saying, "I'm fine" I want to shout, "I've just lost my grandfather, a wonderful man who I didn't appreciate for the first 13 years of my life, a man that I'm beginning to realize I didn't know a whole lot about. And now I don't have the chance to ask him any questions or to hear more stories becuase the timer has run out and I thought there was more sand on his end. How do you really THINK I am doing right now?!"

But that outburst, while probably emotionally valid, would be rude. And quite uncalled for.




Yesterday--The Beatles

Yesterday,
All my troubles seemed so far away,
Now it looks as though they're here to stay,
Oh, I believe in yesterday.

Suddenly,
I'm not half the man I used to be,
There's a shadow hanging over me,
Oh, yesterday came suddenly.

Why she
Had to go I don't know, she wouldn't say.
I said,
Something wrong, now I long for yesterday.

Yesterday,
Love was such an easy game to play,
Now I need a place to hide away,
Oh, I believe in yesterday.

Why she
Had to go I don't know, she wouldn't say.
I said,
Something wrong, now I long for yesterday.

Yesterday,
Love was such an easy game to play,
Now I need a place to hide away,
Oh, I believe in yesterday.

Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm.

If I Could Be an Addams.......

I'm beginning to wonder how sad it is to wish you were part of another family. Especially when that family happens to be fictional.

Maybe not sad then. Just....kooky. And spooky....and altogether ooky.

So yes. I wish I was an Addams. Or if not technically an Addams....I wish I was related to them in some way. They'd be the cool cousins or aunt/uncle most of my fam didn't like to talk about.

I mean, sure....I dunno how I feel about eating salamander tripe or hens stew. I dunno if my ears smoking after wine would be really healthy. And I'm sure Uncle Fester would annoy me after awhile. But...they're so ....odd. And fantastic.

A house where a hand brings in the mail and serves as a lookout for the front door, where Gomez and Morticia regularly fence or dance until they begin kissing because somebody spoke French, where the butler rolls his eyes and plays the harpsichord, where children dig tunnels, feed vultures, blow things up and play with headless dolls. Where a lion is a kitty and it's perfectly normal for plants to move about like snakes. Where if you're eccentric, it's embraced and where your family is so worried about you, so generous and care for you so much they'll try to help you in any way they can.....even if meddling might make you end up in weird situations.

I know they're weird.....and I"m not fond of sleeping on a bed of nails. Plus....I think I'd shriek if Wednesday asked me to play with her and her black widow spiders. But.....at the bottom of all thier oddness and goth-like appearence, they're really nice. They genuinely care about people whether they're family, friends or someone they just met five seconds ago. And while they might be naive in some ways.....they're really wonderful.

It's funny you know.

Sure, I used to hide in fiction when I thought my life sucked. But other than Harry Potter, I've never wished to be in that fictional world.....or rather, that that fictional world was real. And never in my life, have I ever wished so hard to have a fictional family.

I do love my family. Thier antics amuse and frustrate me. But I'm so tired of all the bullcrap you know?

Because in the Addams family, love doesn't come with a price. They care about you even if you're marrying someone they don't like. They love that you're weird to everybody else. They don't judge you if you don't want to be a Catholic (especially since I think they're allergic to churches). And they'd take the time to know you and the people you care about. Because they're like that. And if you're an Addams, you're horribly strange just like them.

They'd never put a price on thier love. And that would never occur to them.

I Am Jack's Drunken Brain Not to be Confused With Jack's PeoplePleaser Synapse

I had a drunken night to celebrate a divorce. While it's quite hard for me to grasp why a divorce is a reason to celebrate....hey. It was festive.....and there was alcohol.

This was a win.

So, me, The Boy, his mother and her fiancée moseyed on down to the Bar. I'd never set foot in there because, well, I thought it looked pretty damn sketchy from the outside. I'm not very comfortable in that setting anyway.....but it's possible my upbringing has something to do with my overall wariness of places with juked-in music, pool tables, sticky counters and excessive amounts of alcohol. I am Sheltered Catholic Girl.

Which was brought up. Sort of.

His mother was drinking beforehand. She poured herself two glasses of some raspberry rum/crystal light concoction before we even left for the bar. I think I witnessed my first pregaming.

So anyhoo, we'd toddled off to the bar and settled in at the counter. I was the only one officially carded (The Boy already had his out and offered it to the bartender but hey....with his goatee/beard he looks about 23 or 24)and then the round began.

I started with an Amaretto Sour (adventurous is my middle name, I know), Boy chose a Rum and Coke (also adventurous) and the other two had Long Island Ice Teas. I raised my eyebrows when they slid over. I'd just read about those drinks. They are a major kick in the ass from what I've heard. Something I'd certainly never have unless I really desperately wanted to wake up with Stars and Stripes Forever in my head and worshipping the great toilet god.

So, the drinks continued. A second round was had and I had another Amaretto Sour. I think at that point everyone stayed the same with their choices. The second drink was as strong as the first and I really was feeling the tingly by then. The Boy's mom began talking more frequently by then. And louder.

There was a guy a few seats down who was unfortunately leaning over the counter. This created a rather large plumber smile that was brought to our attention by her. Of course, she told us rather loudly. Thank God "Put Your Ass Into It" was blaring or that dude might have been more than a little pissed. As it was I was slunk down in my seat and Boy was caught between shushing his mother and hiding his beet red face.

The shenanigans continued as the drinks kept being poured. The Boy had his Dr. McGillicuddy's (mouthwash) shot and the others decided on trying shots as well. Fiancee decided on something with Gold flecks in it (yep...you can ingest gold) and The Mother insisted the rest of us have Slippery Nipples.

Now, by this time I was nursing my third READ IT third Amaretto Sour and it had taken some serious debating to even let me get that far. I had a feeling this Nipple could be my downfall. Especially considering the fact that I was giggling every time the drink was said.

But The Mother insisted that we all (her, Boy and I) have them. And I found myself torn. First of all, it contained vodka and vodka is not my friend. I don't enjoy feeling like my esophagus is in need of a fire extinguisher. And secondly, I had a feeling that I was going to be hitting my limit soon. (I'd already went pee the first time and knew another was coming in like 10 minutes. Stupid alcohol). And yet, I agreed.

And when the Nipple was set before me I looked it over with a bit of distaste. Because it looked like Butterscotch death. And because enough of me was sober to realize that I was going along with what others were saying.

Still, I sipped the Slippery Nipple. I was wrong. It tasted like Butterscotch three alarm fire. When I coughed and made a face I was urged to "finish it! C'mon, one gulp!" Now, I'm not a chugger. And I've never been a fan of the drink it anyway thing. That's reserved for medicine as far as I'm concerned. But...I did it anyway. I gulped down the rest and coughed.

"Don't cough." she said. "Isn't that great? It warms you right up!" I looked at her, with possibly the first sardonic look I've given in a long time. I doubt she noticed though. She was pretty much gone by that point.

She had The Boy help her over to the jukebox to pick songs so we were listening to something other than Eminem, Ice-T and Lil' Wayne. While they were gone, The Fiancee apologized for embarassing me. The two had been getting friendler and more dirty in their comments and jokes as the night progressed. I shrugged and told him I'd heard and told worse at school.

He mentioned my little shell that I was in. Am I really that obvious? I wondered in my buzzed little brain. Apparently.

I waved it off. He was a nice enough guy, despite the occasional racist joke. Plus, they were treating! >_<

When everyone was settled again, the jokes continued. In all honesty I can't remember all of them but I do know that I had my face in Boy's arm more than once. Those two had Alabama Slammers (which I don't think either of them needed but hey....) and Boy tried a new rum and coke mix. I finished up my Amaretto Sour and decided against anything else. I contemplated asking for a Mudslide or Sombrero but I had a feeling the bartender didn't have any kahlua. Besides.....I knew I didn't need any more.

As it was, I'd already bumped into the bathroom doorway, had to lean against The Boy to steady myself and was starting to lose the ability to read. Or at least, words were beginning to blur and move. I began to realize what people with dyslexia felt like. I'd hit my limit. Or at least, the limit I'm comfortable with at this point. So, I declined, stating that I wasn't particularly used to this amount of drinking anyway.

I get to be a bit of a chatter box when I'm drunk. Mainly saying things that either don't make sense to anyone but me(like telling Boy that chewing on a mustache was like chewing on tinfoil, only fuzzy) or stuff that's followed by more elaborate hand gestures than I usually use. The 1/8th Italian comes out when I'm drunk, I guess.

Well, the others thought I was kidding. "Really?" Yep.....I don't drink that much. And hardly anyone in my family does. Other than my Jersey relatives.

And when I said this, The Mother said something about my mother. "Of course she doesn't drink. She's the freaking Catholic Daughters of America."

And something about that rankled me a bit. Maybe it's because she was slurring and laughing. Maybe because it sounded like she was dissing my mom. Or maybe it was because she'd said almost something along the same lines before we were even inside the bar. We were walking up to the door and I said I'd never been but my mother had back in the 80's. And that was met with surpsie that my mom would even go in a bar.

I mean, yeah. My mother never drank while I was growing up. My mother doesn't like to drink in all honesty. She doesn't like the loss of control and you know what, that's kind of what I'm afraid of. That losing control. Which is why I still have a limit. But my mother did indulge in a sombrero the summer before my senior year in high school. Hey, it was Atlantic City and she was on vacation. And she drinks a little wine here and there now when she's cooking. She's not a prude. She just.....grew up around some drinking with my family. And I think the drunkeness made her rethink doing it herself.

And my mother WAS a Catholic Daughter but she quit. She got sick and tired of all the dramatic, catty, political, hypocritical, BULLSHIT and she quit. And people try to get her back and she ignores them. Because it was ridiculous. Kind of like Dance Club after we all got split into two groups. Shameful in middle-aged and geriatric Christian women but hey....high school never ends, right?

So...yeah. That shot through my fuzzy brain. Because nobody disses my mom. But I was too drunk to do or say anything about it. Or maybe I was too sober to let my tongue fly free?

Either way, I firmly turned down further drinks. Even when The Fiancee had another gold drink and The Mother made Boy have another Slippery Nipple with her and she then had a Grape Crush. I refused and munched down on the cheesy Chex mix The Boy brought over for the two of us. I declined further and ignored the "c'mooooon....aren't yuouf in familernty outiieng." which I translated to "C'mon. Aren't you in the family outing too?"

I knew I was starting to sober when I tried to pull myself away from her once she swung my arm wildly back and forth, trying to get me to dance along with her to some 70's song. And the next time I went to the bathroom, I managed to get some of the jokes scrawled on the stall. "Jenna Talia" (always popular), "Dick Goesnya" (unfortunately this confused me through most of the evening) and of course, the perfect line for a Vermont bar: "He can plow my fields any day."

Finally, it was about 11 and the poor bartender was cleaning up. The fiancee supported his very tipsy other half and I grabbed The Boy's hand as we toddled out of the bar. I didn't need his hand but I felt better holding onto him. Especially since I was increasingly nervous about the ride home.

Boy had had less drinks than the Finacee(unless I'd lost count) but he was the one elscted to drive. Even Boy driving would have made me nervous because he had been drinking as well after all. But the older man had been walking around for cigarette breaks alot. He could hold alot of liquor apparently. Still...my stomach twisted a bit. This was exactly what my mother had lectured me about when I turned 21. This was exactly what those I-Ruined-My-Life videos we'd been forced to watch throughout high school were about. So, I was internally FLIPPING OUT.

But I said not a word. The Mother was saying something about how I was too drunk to go home tonight. "Jus stay our ouse." But I knew that was not going to happen. I didn't care if my mother saw me giggling madly as I drunkenly stumbled in the door. I was going home because Dad waking up at 3 and not finding me home was a worse situation, trust me.

I buckled my seatbelt securely and pressed my hands in between my knees. The Fiancee turned the car on all right and even stopped for the stop signs and used his turn signal correctly. I began to feel better. Slightly. I was on my way to sober so I was caught between reassured-ville and blantant paranoia at doing something I was expressly told not to.

And then, we drove past a cop. I was hit by a brand new fear. We would get pulled over. The driver would be arrested. We would all be arrested, the rest of us for being dumb enough to get in the car with him. I would get my permit taken away, my parents would find out and I would have a record. Fuck. But we drove on toward our street and the cop continued on his own way and nothing happened. Boy made a crack about "bacon at the donut shop" to which his mother responded "I didna raise no disrespetful sonofabith." Which struck me as funny. Actually just her talking was making me laugh.

We arrived with no incident back at thier house, The Fiancee laughing his ass off at having driven past a cop and not getting pulled over. I wasn't entirely sure whether I really found that funny or not.

I'm still not sure. Call me a prudy pillbox but hey.....that was the most ballsy (or stupid) thing I've done since I stopped being friends with Maggie. While risks are good to take and God knows I need to take them more often, this was close to downright dumb.

Upon reflection I also realized that I was doing it, i.e. drinking more drinks than I was originally going to and doing exactly what my parents said not to (my moher told me specifically before I went out the door with my ID to call if I needed a ride), because I wanted to be liked. By whom you ask? By Boy's mom. By her fiancee.

That's my problem. I want people to like me. That's why I get so damn nervous around people I don't know. It's why say stupid things sometimes around Boy's friends because I want them to like me. No matter how much smack I talk about not caring...I really do.

I want his mom to like me. She's going to be my mother-in-law for pete's sake. I kinda need her to not loathe my guts. And also.....I didn't want to ....well...be a square. Yeah, my fsmily doesn't really drink. Yeah I'm Catholic and shy and sheltered at times. But I'm not...a square. I'm not lame. At least, I try not to be.

And I realized that I was doing the exact same thing I pulled that time Ginger Bitch and a bunch of boys showed up at Boy's apartment. I was drinking to show I wasn't lame. What's more, I was drinking to fit in.

Holy shit......figures I would hit my go-with-the-crowd phase after high school.

Now that's lame.

Paging Doctor Psycho.....

A new record has been set for Loony. And I've got the gold medal.

This summer I have continued in the same behavior of the previous summer, as well as that of last fall. In other words, I'm an anti-social, paranoid, anxiety-ridden, hyperventilating hermit. Wonderful. Just hand me some valium and a rubber room and I'm all set.

I'm serious. I hide indoors, I'm uncomfortable in public, I hate answering the door, I hate going out, I've avoided going to the movies twice with The Boy, I break out in sweats thinking about going ot the library, job hunting makes me hyperventilate, and I get panic attacks trying to go to sleep at night.

Apparently I need a shrink or something. Or maybe just the rubber room. I did always like bounce houses.....

Lament of the Paranoid

I hate being alone.

I don't mean all the time. I love having solitude in nature. And there are times when all I want is to sit by myself away form everyone else's drama, somewhere so I can be away from all thier crap and just.....cleanse myself of their excessive negativity and emotions. Sometimes I just like being alone enough that I can sing along full blast to the Backstreet Boys and not embarass myself.

No, what I mean by neing alone is being completely a l o n e. As in, there isnt' anyone in the house. Well....there's the pets....but otherwsie there's no one. And you sit there in one room.....and just...listen. Because you've run out of things to do. There's nothing you feel like doing.....becuase it's either homework or more reading and you're actually bored with reading. And alll you hear are the little things....

That distinct ringing noise of the house.......the rhythmic clicking of the clock.......the muffled whoosh of a car going by outside........

It's almost worse in a dorm. When you're the last one there after just being let out on break.....it's actually terrifying. There's just silence. And there's never silence on a college campus. It like what you'd imagine a ghost town would sound like. The loud nothingness.

The worst part about being alone at home though......is being alone when the darkness comes. Being alone at night.

I've always hated that. Always was terrified of it. I can't fall asleep.....I can't do much of anything out of my own jack-up paranoia. I listen to music or watch a little something....but the volume is low so I can hear everything around me. Anyone approaching....or the dog gbetting excited or agitated. Just to make sure...you know?

I'm a paranoid person, this I know. And my paranoia increases the longer I'm in solitude.....in the house....at night.

--So where the fuck is that boy who said he was going to see me this morning?--

My Definition: Thoughts on the Future and Issues

The second half of senior readings was tonight. I went, and again found myself pondering the future as I sat there listening to Scott's introductions. He did a personal introduction to each of the Humanities seniors, each with a bit of humor and admiration.

It made me wonder, what will he say next year with my class? What will he say about my own writing? Will I be remembered as the girl who made up telepathic soulmates? Or for freaking out over readings but still getting through them? I don't know. I'm afraid to know.

I think I have all the time in the world to do things....but then I realize that it's already March of my Junior year in college. I'm losing two great friends in May, (probably going to bawl at graduation), I have to find a summer job and get my liscense (both of which I'm terrified of), and in the fall.....I'll be starting my final year here.

Last year before I am catapulted into reality.

School is almost cruel. You spend your years working hard, slacking off, having fun, and challenging yourself, all to get honor and glory for a brief moment...........honor and glory that the real world doesn't give two shits about.

Will the real world care that I was the first (and to my knoweledge, only) 3rd grader ever to get every single analogy correct on a state test? No one here cares; no one cared in high school for that matter. The same goes for any honor I get here.

What does the real world care if I can perform a decent monologue whilst using a Southern accent? Or that I can argue that The Odyssey was also an epic internal journey for Penelope, as much as it was a physical one for her husband and son? Or that I can connect on an emotional level with my own characters?

They just want to make sure I can count well enough to give them the correct change when I ring up their Big Mac and fries. Or that I actually have an American accent and can enunciate when I try to sell them some slop they can get for cheaper at Wal-Mart. That's what it comes down to. What I can do for them......because they sure as hell won't be doing anything for me.

I see such bright people within my class...and with these seniors. And I really, sincerely hope that the world doesn't trash them. Because I've seen what the wrold did to some of my more unfortunate classmates from high school. It shat on thier faces and then ran them over with a John Deere.

I don't want that for them. And I sure as hell don't want that for me.

Please God........cut my generation a little slack.

On another note, tonight's reading made me think some more about another situation, that being my sanity.

Now, I know I'm crazy. I'm not quite sure as to what level of crazy I have reached but it's definitely up there somewhere. According to self-assessment tests I took last night, I have mild depression and moderate anxiety. Which, you know, was rather obvious.

As far as any other type of crazy goes, apparently officials need to do those tests. So, I don't know whether I'm bipolar or not. I looked over the symptoms last night, mildly reminding myself NOT to panic since I've become quite the hypochondriac within the past year. While, I will admit to not being able to concentrate as much.....and thoughts that jump around....and sometimes feeling sad....hopeless....or worthless.....it's not really that onset.

I don't feel like that all the time....and my highs could not be described as manic. I do do things on impulse sometimes but nothing to a dangerous degree. And that impulsiveness is rather rare as it is. And I never think about killing myself. I do think about freak accidents and people dying but that's mainly because A) I'm paranoid, B) I'm a worrywort, and C) I'm a writer. I think up ways in which people could die and/or be maimed. It kinda comes with the territory.

So, I really don't think I'm bipolar...because from the accounts of it...it does not match me at all.

Which leads me back to depression and anxiety. Depression, as mild as mine is, is just a matter of either talking ot people, adjusting sleep and eating patterns, and finding time to do the things that make me happy. I'm normal, pretty much.

Anxiety sometimes includes those feelings I'm also getting. Like, fearing that you're going crazy or about to lose your mind.....and the feeling that you're watching yourself from far away or that everything is either too vivid or not vivid enough.

I know..it's bad. And I know, there are medications that could probably clear everything up for me. But.....I cannot swallow pills. That inability aside, I don't really want to pollute myself with that crap. Which is partly why I sleep off headaches and have not even dared any kind of birth control. I just don't want that crap running through my system. I have enough icky going through me after I partake in a little drinkies. No need to make it a daily and continuous kind of thing.

Also, after tonight's reading, I remembered why again I did not even think again of doing so. Patty read her piece about being on Paxil, which her pediatrician prescribed her for her anxiety problem. She spent 7 years on it......and realized after awhile that she hadn't really been living life. A mind-altering drug had control over her, over her life.

And I don't want to have to deal with the same crap she did. I don't want to lose precious pieces of my life because I was off in la-la land, not really living. I don't want to be disconnected with everyone I care about. I don't want it. Not at all.

So whatever is going on with me......I'll figure out how to deal with it. If I need to talk to somebody about..then I will. But for now, I've got too much to do.

And by God, I will make myself do things. No more hermit girl......no more mime. That's what got me in this trouble to begin with. But that's not who I am.

Thoughts From the Middle of a Breakdown

The fun continues really. Now they’re making me choose between them. My boyfriend and my best friend. I feel like my life has turned into Twilight.

Both of them are making me pick only one. Doodle, through her passive aggressiveness and guilt trips and The Boy through telling me that no, he’s not making me choose, he’s MADE the choice for me. That there won’t be any event in which the two of them will both attend.

What about my birthdays? What about our wedding? What about baby christenings? What about publishing parties? What about every other milestone in life that I kind of expected both of them to be present for?

What now?

I told him to leave me alone tonight. I didn’t bother to reply to her last message. I just want to be alone. I just want to curl up into the tiniest little ball and stop feeling.

He said he loves me. She says she loves me.

How can they both love me and both continue to make me miserable by making me choose?

That’s the real question I want to fling at them, scream at them at the top of my lungs, throwing things at them, hitting them with everything in me. Why?

How the hell did it get to this point? How the hell did we all get to this one last checkmate? Which piece am I supposed to move? Should I even move at all?

What the hell am I supposed to do?

She drains everything in me, every bit as I try to keep up with her moods, her emotional neediness. I’m back at the same place I was last semester. Again, they want everything out of me. Everybody wants something. Everybody…..especially the two of them. Pulling me in two different directions, like I’m tied to two different horses set off to the East and to the West.

They all want a piece of me: my time, my attention, my friendship, my love, my ears, every bit of me. And I find I’m also in the same place Ex-Friend was right before she left. I give and give and after awhile, there’s not anything left to give.

I’m drained, I’m empty, there’s nothing left in of me.

So why the hell does it feel like everything inside of me is shattering into a million jagged pieces?

I want my mommy.....