Category Archives: Strait-jacket

Inexplicable

“I didn’t want my picture taken because I was going to cry.  I didn’t know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I’d cry for a week.  I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.”  ~Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

On my left arm I have these four small, circular scars. They used to be dark and noticeable and in the six years since these marks were made, they’ve long faded to the point where I don’t notice them. But for the first days, weeks and months they were made – self inflicted, of course – and quickly covered with Neosporin and a bandaid. There were long sleeve shirts during a warm DC spring and when they were finally healed enough, my mother demanded that I purchase makeup so that I could don my fanciest dress to an Ellis Island ball. People think that they’re chicken pox scars. I had the chicken pox with no residual effects. No these are cigarette burns. The kind you get when you are walking around Spring Valley alone. You smoke your Marlboro Light down to the very end and pause for a beat before holding your breath and pressing the burning end of a butt down on your flesh. It never hurt probably because I had spent months feeling nothing but complete despair. So I suppose I was relieved to feel something? I don’t know.

What I do know is that in the years since burning myself in order to feel something. And a brief digression to see these words written in a Word document and to realize that I am totally one of Those People, well, that is a shock in and of itself; regardless in the years that have passed there have been therapists and medication and coping mechanisms. They say that it’s ok to feel sad at times but I know the difference between feeling genuinely sad and an intense struggle against yourself as your head says, “Fuck it. I can’t do this anymore”. It’s isolating. You want to reach out and have someone help and yet to put your finger on exactly what is wrong is next to impossible. Because it’s nothing and everything bothering me. This feeling that I’m not doing something right and I don’t know how to fix it and so I wallow.

I thought writing right now, in my office, with The Feeling hanging over my head, nudging me on would force me to come up with the words of what this feels like. How everything seems impossible and the struggle not to look forward to the end of the week but to just get through the damn day. It’s terrifying. It’s isolating. It’s as if there is no way to stop It. I knew this is what would happen; when you are diagnosed with something that actively takes you through a roller coaster of emotions because that is what Bipolar Disorder does. One day you can do anything! And days later it’s a struggle to do one thing.

I don’t know why I’m telling you about this. Perhaps if I get it out I’ll feel better? It’s not pity I’m looking for. It’s just…sometimes you feel that you need to say something. Anything. And this is one of those times.

Posted in Strait-jacket | 36 Comments

Stuff. ‘Nuff said.

“Life is a great big canvas, and you should throw all the paint on it you can.”  ~Danny Kaye

Earlier today I became thoroughly and shockingly annoyed over the apathy of others. I demanded response and some sort of commentary to a new Obama administration appointment and instead no one shared the joy, wonder, curiosity and overwhelming amount of giddiness that erupted upon hearing of a thisclose vacancy in the United States House. As much as I dislike apathy towards politics I find my reaction to the apathy a bit deplorable. Who am I to be judgemental and tell people that they should care about Sonia Sotomayor or John McHugh? Why should I be the one to tell others that how a presidential candidate feels about a woman’s right to choose or Plessy v. Ferguson will end up impacting generations? That isn’t my job and yet the way it maddened me today. It was so…well…it was unnecessary. And I totally take back when I said – behind your back – that if Neil Patrick Harris was giving someone a blow job on my bed then you would care more than who Obama was appointing to very high powered positions. I’m sorry.

***

On Sunday evening – pre the day of self righteous bitch ass behavior – I burned three of my fingers on my right hand. I burned them after I put METAL into the microwave so I could make tea because I couldn’t find my normal tea making accouterments. So there I was grabbing hot metal, fleshy fingers first out of the microwave. Good news is that in the event that I commit a serious felony I have no finger prints. Bad news is that I’m using the hunt and peck method when it comes to typing. There’s also a ruined manicure and my father was rather disappointed by my Vulcan salute because my fingers are so effed up that I can’t tell anyone to ‘live long and prosper’ with the proper enthusiasm.

***

I think I’ve spent the last three weeks without telling you that I’ve started writing at MamaPop again. I’m…and I’m loathe to admit this so I’m taking deep breaths but it’s not nearly as bad as Holly crying during Speidi’s wedding so I really shouldn’t care…..I’m doing recaps of The Real Housewives of New Jersey(1, 2, 3). And I fucking love it more than is appropriate. Especially that Caroline. The Carmela Soprano of the group who will fuck a bitch up in a minute.

***

I leave for DC again next week. I’ll have to update my suggestions but that is the least of my worries right now. I keep flipping through my paper planner to July and then I flip back. I then I look at July again and then I flip back. Rinse and repeat. It’s because I need a Klonopin every time I think of July. The running around and the multiple experiences with TSA and how I’m going to pack and the number of tattoos I will be getting and suddenly I’m awake at 2:30AM thinking about standing by myself at BlogHer because EVERYONE HATES ME.

***

Last night I lived my worst fear: I saw my therapist at the bar. I’m not really supposed to be drinking. We pretended not to know each other. Let’s just say I’ll have some ‘splaining to do about that goblet full of (shitty) Meritage.

***

I’m posting now in hopes that tomorrow comes sooner. I’m awaiting a special package at the suggestion of Karen and OMFG I cannot wait to show you guys and also I owe Karen a kiss. And this chick needs some practice like whoa.

Also posted in Oh The Stupidity You'll See, Socially Awkward Barbie™, The object of my obsession | 7 Comments

Cry Baby

“How do people go to sleep?  I’m afraid I’ve lost the knack.  I might try busting myself smartly over the temple with the night-light.  I might repeat to myself, slowly and soothingly, a list of quotations beautiful from minds profound; if I can remember any of the damn things.”  ~Dorothy Parker

Since we last spoke I seem to have stopped sleeping. Let me rephrase that, my body is rebelling against something and while I lay in bed vewy, vewy quietly like I’m hunting wabbits, my circadian rhythm is like, ‘fuck that noise, let’s party’ while my brain is like, ‘How do I remove myself from this situation?’ and I am like, ‘I’m going to cry now. You all work it out’. And then I start writing posts about how my brain and my body have actual conversations with each other. Perhaps I’ll share with you the one I wrote where they duel.

This has never happened before. I’ve never been so exhausted and yet so unable to sleep. I’ve never felt like my head is detached from the rest of me, off doing it’s own thing while I just follow along going through the motions.

You know how babies are when they’re beyond tired and so they cry and cry and cry and become irritable? But then they eventually stop and fall asleep at like 7 AM for a few hours and you’re like, ‘awww, look at my sleeping angel sweetie pie’. And they are able to do that because they aren’t responsible adults with jobs and worries about the economy and why Kelly Bensimon is such a raging bitch?

I’d be a baby right now. One of those crying, screaming insane babies who is so overtired that my only recourse is to lose my shit because my brain and the rest of my body aren’t on the same page.

I’m miserable.

Also posted in The year on the edge | 21 Comments

When I get drunk and fall on my ass

“Bygone troubles are good to tell.”  ~Yiddish Proverb

I’ve been known to drink quite a bit and now I feel compelled to assure that this is not a daily occurance. I don’t wake up each morning craving vodka on the rocks but I do fully embrace my heart healthy glass of red wine with my meal. But then there are the times where I’m flitting around, caught in the moment. The drinks are poured and the laughs start; the stories and “Remember when…” that end in a slew of words and a fit of giggles. Those moments when we up and decide on anothe round because sometimes it feels good to be caught in the whirl of things only stopping to smile and embrace the good. The evenings wear on and the guffaws turn into a cacophany of noise as it is so possible to be carried on an air of good feeling and adrenaline. But the evening ends and what was once fun slowly turns topsy turvy complete with the spins and what was once fun may turn sour. Sometimes you puke. Or sometimes you just fall on your ass and the laughter starts again. The best parts are the mornings; waking up giggling with friends over brunch. It’s the silly happy drunk with life and martinis and stories to share.

At the start of January I was drunk. Slap happy drunk and full of good thoughts and feelings. I kept refilling my glass and grooving around so feuled by pure energy that I thought it would propel me to a year of awesomeness. Then 11 days in, I fell on my ass. I wasn’t drunk and happy go lucky anymore. I was ornery, sad and surly. Convinced that I was destined to falter and fail. It was this crushing failure that rears its ugly little head every once in awhile. The time that burns and turns everything inside into something the consistency of sawdust.

But I do that a lot – I get swept up in the moment, lose my footing and then fall. It’s not just the wine but its how life is. Going through motions and enjoying things, bobbing and weaving and yeah, you fall on your ass. I fall on my ass more than I would ever like to admit. You fall, you might puke, you might even get a hangover but you have to keep going. It takes a few weeks but until one day you sit at a table with your friends laughing over martinis. Remembering why you do the things that you do and that even when you have those awful bad days that are so hard to bear that tears prick your eyes that there is the good.

So sometimes I get drunk I fall on my ass. And instead of laying there whimpering I get up again and eventually throw my head back and laugh because it never fails that there are these people around me who help me up again and support and I lean on them to something better just around the corner.

Also posted in Whoa feelings | 7 Comments

Like Ray Charles said*

“I sit and cry,
Just like a child
My pouring tears
Are runnin’ wild”- Ray Charles

To be honest I hate those assholes who do one or all of the following:

A) Say, “I have something awesome to tell you guys but I can’t tell you right now”  code for: I’m knocked up or I’m writing a book or both,

B) Say, “I cannot blog anymore because XYZ that you don’t know about are going on and so I can’t” but picture that person doing it with a Scarlet O’hara type look and a hand on their head as they cannot bear to write much more and it must be said as dramatically as possible,

OR

C) Just up and disappear off the face of the earth

My detest comes in the form of an eyeroll and I want to say, “If you don’t want to blog then don’t. I don’t care but don’t make some grand sweeping exit and then return five days later with a story about that funny thing your kid did”. Then again, I can be a supreme asshole. Like vicious.

Today on the way home I knew I wouldn’t be able to physically bring myself to write any words anywhere for quite some time. In fact I’m in tears about it now because it feels as if there is this huge pressure from every inch of my body that is preventing me to do much of anything except to lay here in a pool of snot and tears on my pillow which will now need to be washed because ew; snot and tears.

This is my no means a permanent thing and certainly not limited to leaving you lovely people in the dust while kicking up my heels all the wall and high-fiving passersby as a symbol of my freedom. I just cannot physcially bring myself to write words or … God, go to work. And I never thought I’d be that person so consumed by some fucking illness that I can’t function.

My last attempt at normalcy was dress buying today for an Inauguration cocktail party. I planned out each special ocassion outfit for next week to be a theme, “What’s black and white and hot all over? ME” and now I am ‘meh’ towards anything Obamarama related. Like leaving and doing nothing is fruitless and I cannot count the number of times I’ve referred to myself as irrelevant over the past 72 hours.

There’s this Ray Charles song called Drown in My Own Tears. Every time it comes on the my iPod during a shuffle I skip over it because it’s so sad and melancholoy and really now, what’s depressed and said and crying all over? Well, the answer once again would be ME.

*I had closed the comments because I didn’t want to be THAT girl and all, “Wah, wah, WAHHHH. Overdramatic. Woe! Leave me comments to make me come back!” and then you all would be like, “Ooh, look at me playing the world’s tiniest violin” and it would all just go downhill from there and not make me feel better at all. So there. If I’m going to be an asshole – and if I use that word one more time Melissa will drag her ass up here and bitch slap me – I might as well embrace my full overdramatic assholeness. Right? Right.

Also posted in Whoa feelings | 28 Comments