On Martha’s Vineyard there is a popular spot called South Beach. It’s popular because of the beauty and intensity of the waves. They’re body surfing, boogie boarding, let’s ride it out, type waves. Garrett and I would drag our mother out to Edgartown, which is a hike in the way everything is a lengthy trip on vacation. Like seriously, you want me to walk to the end of the driveway? And then you use telepathy to get the mail to your doorstep. Pretty much like that.

Garrett and I would first go toe deep into the water getting used to the temperature and then we’d slowly wade in until we were ready to dare each other to dunk our entire bodies in. With a count to three we’d be in and the water would be glorious. That chill would be gone and we’d swim out a little deeper. Now here is something you should know about my mother; when she was about eight years old she went to Jones Beach with her brothers, cousins and father. While at the beach she went out too far into the waves and almost drowned. She survived – duh – and I swear to God, I could not make this up if I tried, when she got home she went bike riding and was hit by a car.

My mother almost drowned and then got hit by a car within four hours thus spending the remainder of the summer in a wheelchair with a cast on her arm and leg. And then I wonder why she doesn’t ‘feel my pain’ when I have a sinus infection. Probably because I can use both of my legs.

All of that said, she is no fan of the water. I mean she’ll go out into it but having once almost drowned she’s far more respectful of the water. Whereas Garrett and I are practically fearless and will wade out until we can no longer touch and await the waves. God, I love that rush of the waves. When you can spot them coming and start to swim back only to have them take you away. That rush of being carried and weightless. But then there are those other moments, anyone who has experienced a beach knows what I am speaking of. When the waves carry you and you’re underneath but hark! There is another one at its tail and the next thing you know as you rise up out from the surf there is another wave to knock you back over. And then again. Again. Again. Your body hitting the sandy bottom. Moments later you’re standing up looking towards the beach thinking, holy fuck, did you see that? But no one ever notices as you gasp and catch your breath while shimmying to get the sand out of those unfortunate places. Upon landing back at your towel you wonder how long you were under there for? How long did the waves have you in their grasp? It was only a few minutes you realize, but, my God, it felt like eternity.

I have been having panic attacks lately. Three in the past four days. So awful they were that they rendered me unable to fulfill my best friend duties and left me under the covers, tears in my eyes, telling myself that things would be ok. My aforementioend best friend asked me what they felt like and I told her about the waves, about not being able to get up and take a deep breath and in those few minutes of struggling for a full breath it seems as if hours go by. Later I would explain to my doctor that it was only a few minutes. In response she told me that they were probably due to ‘anticipatory anxiety’ though I just say it’s due to ‘general fucked up-ness’.

My most recent panic attack was in a parking lot next to my car. Wind was whipping and it was frigid so I wheezed my way into my car but I didn’t cry. I just teared upon the realization that to live like this was surely not living at all. I’ve spent the past several weeks under waves trying to get up. If I stay down there, I’ll drown. It’s these instances when I need someone to yell at me and tell me to stand because my feet touch. And just like that, I can breathe again.

I’ve been fired once before. From an assitive living community where Pat Riley’s mother once resided. Though to be honest I had a thing for the Knicks. And this was long before they were so awful that people bet 2:1 on their loss. I even had one of this giant puffy Starter jackets that precluded me from entering a doorframe anyway except for sideways but it still made me feel all bad ass. Me and my clarinet.

But my firing. I was 16 I would imagine. And the firing was done by some cross-eyed woman named Mary with white hair and glasses so thick that when she removed them I was shocked by the size of her eyeballs. They were so, so…tiny. And she fired me over the phone for leaving early one day. I didn’t check off my closing side-work and so I was let go.

I spent the next week sobbing into my toast thinking that I would never ever have another job again. For if I couldn’t make it in the food service industry picking up applesauce droplets from already stained tablecloths then I would and could be nothing in this world. I would be the least successful person ever and have to reside in my mother’s basement on an uncomfortable futon. No school would ever take me. And I’d end up on the street. The end.

Of course none of that happened I ended up getting into a perfectly acceptable university and graduating and everything! I even got a job! Three jobs! And here I sit in a comfortable Queen sized bed able to tell the tale.

My second firing happened today. Today I got fired from a part-time writing gig but still FIRED. Even saying it sounds wrong. The way it rolls off of my tongue and the harshness of the ‘f’ sound at the start of the word. Nothing about ‘fired’ sounds gentle though I suppose that it’s supposed to conjure up imagery of anything but gentle. Hearing the words come out from 1,000 miles away was like being shoved into an outdoor pool in the middle of December. It’s that initial shock of the chill that gets you at your core. Tears spring to your eyes as you tread back to the ladder. Those few feet feel like forever as you try to gasp for air but it’s only a few feet as you reach out and grasp onto the ladder.

Once out the initial shock dissipates but the stunned and the hurt feelings linger. It doesn’t mean the end of anything or the beginning of something. At least not at first. It’s just anger. It’s name calling and irrational tears even when you know that it was coming.

The time had come. I knew so. They knew so. I yelled and waited for it and practically taunted and begged for it to happen and it did. I can force blame and say the who, where, what and how and if you don’t like me tell me. I can say all of that bullshit to make myself feel better but what’s the use. It’s done. And to be honest there’s only so much one can write about being a 20-something on the path to acceptance of life and career. Hell, this would make an excellent post that shit happens and how to manage the shit of life with everything else. But they don’t teach, Man The Fuck up 101.

So, I’ve been fired. I’m not sure what I have to offer. But what’s that thing about the door closing and windows opening but probably not wide enough lest some recently fired individual jump out. But I still feel like something good is in the air.

At least that’s what I’ll tell myself every time I repeat the words; ‘you’re fired’.

On Tuesday I had planned to attend a reception in DC where I had invited several VIPS that braved golf ball sized hail to attend this reception. Of course I wasn’t there because my flight had been diverted to to Long Island. As in I flew from Albany to Long Island. And then to DC.  

On Wednesday someone hacked into my site.

On Thursday while at Proof, I noticed that someone had hacked into my Twitter account.

On Saturday I was headed to Boston for the pre-BlogHer meetup and my car died exactly five miles from home.

Can you see where this all is headed? Can you feel the stress level rising? Can you hear me saying, “There isn’t enough klonopin in the world to cover this shit”? Can you hear me opening a bottle of wine and laying in the middle of my mother’s living room and drinking it straight from the bottle while my mother gives me The Look of Dismay? Can you hear me screaming FUCKING COCK SUCKING MOTHERFUCKING SHIT? Because that’s what’s going on right now.

If you were following me on Twitter here is the new URL: http://twitter.com/TheHeatherB

According to my hosting company and the wonderful and amazing Sean Slinsky, Google should be caught up by next week and hopefully I’ll have my life back. There was a long post coming about how painful it was not to have my site. My baby. And that I missed Twitter. And then every time I went to hit Twitterfon I realized that I never have or had anything to say. So really, all you’ve missed out on is my grand announcement that it is colder in Albany than it is in DC and I still miss Tim Russert. You’re welcome.

Oklahoma is my adopted home away from home. After I moved back to Albany and the joy of having the prodigal daughter’s return had worn off, my parents went back to saying things like, “Well, if you want food, you know where the kitchen is.” So later that year I found that Oklahoma City was like being at home. I had my friends and my faux-family to go to whenever I needed respite from the very hard life I was leading of cross-country hotel hopping.

In September I went for Susan’s book signing and while she and Wade went out with the boys I asked if I could have Shana over to play. That was the day that I went to Sonic twice, drank GSM like it was my job and we discussed baby names for Shana’s impending arrival. That was also the night that Susan and I stayed up until 2AM discussing Didacticism and the following morning I went home with the feeling that I used to to get when leaving Albany: That one always needs to have that bit of respite with their family just for hugs and some love.

I’m pausing right now because my train of thought is gone. Those words that usually come out so naturally have slammed into a brickwall because when the unfathomable happens. You want to speak but can’t. Everything comes out of your brain at once as it tries to comprehend everything. Instead of compartmentalizing death and parenting in such a way that never the two shall meet, my brain is currently in FAIL mode because the two should not meet and yet here we are again.

Shana’s baby boy Thalon; the same baby boy I held in January while his older sister kept petting his head saying, “He’s so cute!”. The same baby boy whose head I sniffed and whose face I stared just a few short months ago is now gone.

There is so much more I want to say right now. All of the things that I can suddenly say on the phone but to write anything right now would be trite. I will leave you with this though: Last week my mother and I got into a HUGE fight. One of those fights where I was hurt and angry because of something she had done and then she spent days worrying so much and out of anger I told her to leave me alone. I yelled. I swore and I avoided her. Meanwhile she worried and I thought well, I’m an adult and she needs to stay out of it. Here’s another lesson learned: Once you become a parent that doesn’t stop. That worry and that cliched bit about having your heart walking around outside of your body never fucking ends. Your children become your world and for every sting they have you feel it times ten.

After the last two weeks I keep shaking my head because babies should never die. It’s not right and it’s the most fucked up thing I have ever heard. And yet it keeps happening and all I want to do is sit here in my pajama pants and wonder why?

None of the above makes any sense. And I don’t even care. I’m just torn up on the inside and questioning how parents do it. How do you spend the rest of your life constantly worrying that in any minute your heart might break into a million pieces?

None of the above makes sense because it shouldn’t. It – the death of a child – shouldn’t happen but it does.

****

Sarah put up a paypal account for Shana and her family. So head over there if you can.

January has been a bitch. Correction, I have been January’s bitch and feel free to insert any insinuation of bending over and grabbing one’s ankles. That’s how January has been to me and I don’t think that January knows the meaning of the word ‘gentle’. Or ‘lubrication’ for that matter.

In the middle of putting on my earrings this morning my mother called and then texted. With one earring in and only one sock in sight, she informed me that my grandmother – her mother – is dying. “She’s taken a turn for the worse”, were the exact words. Phrasing like that makes me think that we’re trapped in Ma and Pa Ingalls kitchen while Mary battles scarlet fever. But there I was half dressed and discombobulated when my lip started to tremble and again…the tears.

Though at least it was something tangible as opposed to the tears of yore that were due to a dip in the bipolar spectrum. This time there was something I could put my finger on; the possible death of a grandparent which inevitably tosses me in the murky water of contemplating mortality. That of my parents and then of my mother’s sister. My mother’s sister who was reading “Peaceful Dying” on Christmas Eve. When I brought the choice of literature up to my mother she answered matter of factly, “Well she’s dying, Heather.”

She’s a stoic one, my mother. While I have to allow every feeling in, circulate, process and then dispel in a very elaborate way she seems to just take things as they are. These things happen she says and she tells me that I should feel lucky to have had grandparents for as long as I did. It’s just words and doesn’t mask that feeling of heartbreak which thrusts every memory so that it presses against my forehead. It gives me a headache to know that she is hurting; her sister is dying, her mother is dying and she still needs to take care of me.

A little over a month ago my older brothers’ mother died. It was unfathomable that their mother died and yet they were ok. Able to walk and talk and function. When I called our father he said that very soon we would go over what to do in the event of his death. And it made me angry – this all makes me so angry – how matter of fact both of my parents can be. It makes me feel like maybe I’m not theirs because of how deeply I feel. But even more, I’m just livid that it happens; that our parents will leave and no one tells you that the mere thought will make your heart tighten and ache and the pain will radiate to every limb but all you can do is cry.

Being over the age of 18 should come with a disclaimer: “WARNING: This shit might get expensive” or “WARNING: May feel like having something rammed up your ass every third day” or “WARNING: May feel tingly sensation, nausea and vertigo when you look at your credit card balance” or “WARNING: Dumb ass PAY YOUR FUCKING PARKING TICKETS”

It’s currently 11:59 AM and just 20 minutes ago I decided to head downstairs to get my first cup of coffee for the day and then I remembered the greek yogurt and banana extravaganza I had sitting in my bag and hmm, perhaps I should think about eating in general. I am the last person on earth to just casually miss a meal and coworkers are actually afraid to speak to me until I’ve had coffee. I’m usually the one to suggest that perhaps intravenous lines of coffee might be the wave of the future so someone – but not me because I’m too damn lazy – should look into that. And the above has been my regular course of action for the last several weeks though peppered with the occasional bouts of huzzah and cheek hurting smiles to almost make me forget how god damn sad I’ve been.

I was recently told that writing things out in such a public forum is just a barometer of feelings at that very moment. And it’s true that I’m just admitting my honest feelings tentatively and over a layer of apology. Despite each bit of good that happens and the number of hours I spent sunbathing over the weekend and the way cold Riesling feels on a perfect summer day, there are an equal number of times where I get hit by this wave of sorrow coupled with stupidity. It’s like walking at a normal speed, whistling while I work only to accidentally run into a wall. Though normally I would just keep on walking after hitting that wall instead I am jarred back to my rightful place upon the Throne of Misery.

While it might be true that while pain is a necessity in life but suffering would be option and it is also true that I deserve each and every single day of perpetual sadness (Karma Strikes Back!) I would not be in such depths of suffering if I didn’t feel like I was just sinking in it with no way of getting out. I’ve been good at not inundating everyone around me with how incredibly difficult and tiring every fucking day has been because it’s boring and unnecessary and who the fuck complains when generally speaking things are just swell? I mean I’m excellent at that shit but I’ve been trying to keep it to a minimum as of late so as not to disturb the readers.

But it’s so overwhelming and powerfully so that it’s hard not to just burst at the seams and say I am sad. I am so fucking sad and miserable and I’ve started eyeing my Lexapro seductively and saying “You and me, kid. Make me proud!”. I talk to plastic pill bottles and if that’s not completely pathetic then I don’t know what is.

So I’ve totally turned into that girl that I used to loathe and pity. The girl who gets all melancholy and weepy over some stupid guy and then whines about it. And of course there is a bigger story and I would love nothing more then to tell that story and then perhaps act it out on a very special episode of General Hospital, it’s just that fucking sordid and good. But I seem to have my limits and the dam has been broken and admitting that I’m now the sad and pathetic girl who forgets to drink her beloved coffee is a big step for me.

Which brings us back to the coffee. I’m just sitting here sipping it with The Boss playing in the background and ready to get out of this pity party for one and wishing that time would just move a little bit faster.

You know things aren’t going well when after buying out Ann Taylor Loft you sit in your car listening to Kimya Dawson while inhaling Coldstone ice cream. Ice cream that you haven’t had in like three years and yet it’s made a strong comeback into your daily intake along with other liquid dairy products and excessive amounts of high fructose corn syrup, meanwhile every second sitting in that car, you can feel yourself about to cry and yet you don’t or can’t or perhaps you’re afraid that someone will see you and then question why you are sitting in your car crying in the middle of the afternoon. Because don’t you have a job or something to go to? So you sit and sit and feel like crying but you don’t cry and this process repeats itself for days until you finally find yourself moping at work and then eating your weight in naan and saag paneer while your mother sits across from you and wonders when you replaced with your mouth with a fantastic Dyson sucking mechanism. In between sips of root beer – which has also decided to make itself known once again – you say, “It’s personal” and look rather forlorn and she gets the menacing look like ‘who just fucked with my baby’ so you smile and say “I AM FINE” so that she doesn’t go around the eastern seaboard slashing tires.

From then on you decide to fake feeling just fine! And great! Even though on the inside you feel like someone has been kicking you with the business end of a golf shoe and my, when did spikes get so sharp and pointy? You quickly tire of hearing that things take time and distance and ice cream but this time and distance shit suck and ice cream only makes you bloated with a fat ass which makes you thankful for empire waists but still! Who will want you with a bloated and fat ass? This, you contemplate for days on end while simultaneously pretending to listen and pay attention and care and have normal conversations with dignitaries while your mind is far off and so you keep drinking wine and then spend two solid days inside until one day the voice of Carrie Bradshaw reverberates through your head via seven hours of Sex and the City and you realize that you’ve become a fucking cliché. More importantly you realize that you are not the first or last person to become desperately heartsick so you can either go back to your normal activities and stop eating your weight in dairy and Jack Daniels or you continue on with your sad and pathetic behavior even though others might not think it all sad and pathetic but rather normal even though one person has allowed you to “keep up with this shit” for a few more days. You mull this for a second and decide on normal. The next day you go to the gym and return to a diet of seaweed salad, sushi, soymilk and flavored seltzer. You have a conversation without crying, you make plans with several of your favorite ladies and to also log more airplane time.

And life moves on, as it should.

When The Break-Up came out I remember asking a friend of mine the requisite questions that would determine whether or not I should really spend the GDP of Djibouti on a movie. Her response was that it was funny and “realistic of a real break up” in that both sides found no issue in stopping at nothing to prove their former significant other wrong, to get back at the other side and to be as stubborn as possible while doing so. My response was dubious at best, for why would anyone want to drag out a break up? Why fight the inevitable? And what the hell kind of relationships are people in where when the end comes they aren’t doing a jig and smoking a peace pipe when it’s all over? There has never been a relationship that has ended when I haven’t fallen on my knees to thank God because why must you dip your fries in mayonnaise and chew with your mouth open? WHY?

(The mayonnaise dipper is married to someone else now. Once again; thank God!)

In my mind it bared close resemblance in absurdity to people who when asked about their relationships could only reply that it was ‘complicated’. The hell? What is complicated? You are either in a relationship with someone or you are not. And you can bet your pretty ass that the person that you are all ‘it’s complicated’ over is pretty damn sure one-way or the other as to the state of your relationship so the complication is probably in your mind.

I like for most things to be pretty clear-cut as it saves me from having to deal with endless piles of bullshit. Of course I believe that many things have a gray area but for the most part quick and dry would be my preferred way of dealing with situations. So when I found myself on the other side, the side when I could go back and forth for weeks on end spewing vitriol and only being able to refer to a relationship as ridiculously complicated, annoyingly so, well then I felt like an ass. I felt like an ass for rolling my eyes or questioning why a friend would and could feel so strongly about something that was torpedoing towards demise. I felt like an ass for not even trying to be understanding because there is no way to understand a situation involving the intricacies of a relationship until you find yourself in the throes of its ending while crying into dairy products. In the last several months and weeks no milkshake or caffeine laced frappuccino has been left unscathed.

Having seen Forgetting Sarah Marshall over the weekend and watching poor Peter Bretter get over the titular character while being a poor schmuck pining away and crying, I kind of get it. Because I am totally that girl who has had numerous crying jags over the smallest things. There have been evenings when I’ve been at my most pathetic and drinking anything and everything in the house because what else would all that leftover brandy from eggnog making be staring at me for? It wants for me to partake even if it is through annoying tears of pain; the pain of allowing exactly one person determine exactly how well my day would go. Of course in hindsight I’m in a lot less pain and instead there’s anger for allowing myself to get to a point where I’m feeling so utterly shitty because of ONE person. I very recently said that I am not a crier – honestly – and if I do cry it isn’t over the opposite sex it’s because of a death or because there is no more vodka left, but never over a male. That is when a friend told me that while I probably don’t cry over men, it is entirely possible to cry over love. And with that I cried some more.

Keeping most of this trauma inside has been a lot more difficult than I thought but I had to because it’s not just about me. There is an entire other person who has been hurt and upset and for every instance that I can point out his harsh behavior he can point to that time I threw a tantrum in the middle of Farragut West (Tourists! Come to DC to see the White House and the crazy, screaming lunatic!). I also needed to go through all that has occurred while wondering if this could really been my life. Unfortunately it has been my life and probably something that was inevitable that I go through: Heartache. Though not complete unrequited love. In fact if it were unrequited love I am sure that my life would be easier right now. And that I wouldn’t get out of bed only to get back in it 15 minutes later because the tears! Anyway this shit hurts. It’s an indescribable pain that probably will not cause irreparable harm and yet the last month has been one of the most painful things that have occurred in my short little life. Right up there with my sophomore year when I found out the hard way that I was severely depressed except this time there is no medical reason or diagnosis. Nothing makes heartache go away except for time. TIME. Not xanax not vodka not several shots of patron and a pitcher (or three) of margaritas but time. (The proper response here would be: Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck)

A few years ago a friend of mine had a particularly bad break up and then came to visit me in Spain. She made me stay with her in her hostel because she didn’t want to be alone. I rolled my eyes but obliged. In the middle of the night she was still pining away and questioning her decision for a break up and complete separation and I remained silent while thinking “get the hell over it already”. It had been like three days. She told me that I didn’t understand because I couldn’t understand. Of course she was right and now that I do understand I really wish I couldn’t.

I just asked this on Twitter but I figured that it was too good to limit the endless possible answers to 300 some odd people. For the record I don’t even know 300 people. I don’t even know 30 people. But if you want to hear about how I can tie a knot with a cherry stem or that cherry blossoms make me sick, then be my guest and do follow. Pull up a chair and I’ll give you every asinine detail of my life. I’M A GIVER.

So here goes: What is the worst pain you have ever felt?