“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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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.