Two nights ago, I pretty much resigned myself to a destiny of mediocrity. I wonder if others of my kind ever come to this discovery as I feel I have, or just are. Mediocre.
For as long as I remember, I wanted to be someone that others considered special. I felt that life really had no meaning unless others paid attention to, appreciated, adored me. I don't deny that some of this may have been due to the emotional neglect I experienced growing up and/or my innate? narcissistic impulses. But now, after over 32 years, I've come to realize I will likely never be any of those things. I'm not being humble or even self-depricating. I've just finally begun to accept that I am not going to be anything special.
I'm not a bad person. I'm not a great person. I'm not dumb. I'm not brilliant. I'm not gorgeous, I'm not ugly. I have no particular talents or skills even. All I do with my spare time is read and watch movies. My life directly impacts about three other people. Sure, I say I want to write, but I rarely do. I'm never going to be an actor, so writing was all I thought I had, and even that, I'm too lazy or uninspired to do. It's not like anyone is going to sit me down and force me to write something. And the way things are going, I don't think I'm ever going to have any children, so I cannot even do that. Some people consider that to be the most important thing they've done in life.
I say all of this with a sense of regret, and I do regret. But perhaps I should stop beating myself up about it. Is just existing so wrong? It is just life, after all.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Man-fucking-hattan
The fact that certain people are priced out of living in Manhattan is New York's way of saying: "You know, what you do just isn't important enough to merit convenience or a great social life!"
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Today
This morning, I was awakened by my clock-radio broadcasting the New York
City commemoration of the tragedy that occurred here 6 years
ago at that exact moment. It felt weird to come to work on such a solemn
day, when just a week ago we had Monday off for Labor Day, a holiday
which very few of us can even explain, but rather spend at the beach
and/or barbecuing.
Perhaps in thirty years or so, we will have a day off to reflect. In
the meantime, here is a poem I like that sort of captures some essence:
Riding the Elevator Into the Sky
By Anne Sexton (1975)
As the fireman said:
Don't book a room over the fifth floor
in any hotel in New York.
They have ladders that will reach further
but no one will climb them.
As the New York Times said:
The elevator always seeks out
the floor of the fire
and automatically opens
and won't shut.
These are the warnings
that you must forget
if you're climbing out of yourself.
If you're going to smash into the sky.
Many times I've gone past
the fifth floor,
cranking upward,
but only once
have I gone all the way up.
Sixtieth floor:
small plants and swans bending
into their grave.
Floor two hundred:
mountains with the patience of a cat,
silence wearing its sneakers.
Floor five hundred:
messages and letters centuries old,
birds to drink,
a kitchen of clouds.
Floor six thousand:
the stars,
skeletons on fire,
their arms singing.
And a key,
a very large key,
that opens something -
some useful door -
up there.
somewhere -
up there.
City commemoration of the tragedy that occurred here 6 years
ago at that exact moment. It felt weird to come to work on such a solemn
day, when just a week ago we had Monday off for Labor Day, a holiday
which very few of us can even explain, but rather spend at the beach
and/or barbecuing.
Perhaps in thirty years or so, we will have a day off to reflect. In
the meantime, here is a poem I like that sort of captures some essence:
Riding the Elevator Into the Sky
By Anne Sexton (1975)
As the fireman said:
Don't book a room over the fifth floor
in any hotel in New York.
They have ladders that will reach further
but no one will climb them.
As the New York Times said:
The elevator always seeks out
the floor of the fire
and automatically opens
and won't shut.
These are the warnings
that you must forget
if you're climbing out of yourself.
If you're going to smash into the sky.
Many times I've gone past
the fifth floor,
cranking upward,
but only once
have I gone all the way up.
Sixtieth floor:
small plants and swans bending
into their grave.
Floor two hundred:
mountains with the patience of a cat,
silence wearing its sneakers.
Floor five hundred:
messages and letters centuries old,
birds to drink,
a kitchen of clouds.
Floor six thousand:
the stars,
skeletons on fire,
their arms singing.
And a key,
a very large key,
that opens something -
some useful door -
up there.
somewhere -
up there.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
I Love Him. I Hate Him.
Sometimes I feel like he never really wanted me, that he was always waiting for someone better to come along, keeping me on the backburner so he'd never feel unwanted or alone.
So then why did he ever tell me that you loved me? I should have known. And when she came along, he kept her a secret, midleading me, not even allowing a healthy transition, and *suddenly*--he's engaged?
Sometimes, I feel like he took all the best parts of me, of us, and gave them to her, this girl, alas, 7 years younger than I.
I tell myself that he's the weak one, but then, why does he seem so happy, and I am the one left hurting and alone?
So then why did he ever tell me that you loved me? I should have known. And when she came along, he kept her a secret, midleading me, not even allowing a healthy transition, and *suddenly*--he's engaged?
Sometimes, I feel like he took all the best parts of me, of us, and gave them to her, this girl, alas, 7 years younger than I.
I tell myself that he's the weak one, but then, why does he seem so happy, and I am the one left hurting and alone?
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
My Father
My father died today at 5:23pm.
I arrived here on Sunday, Father's Day, and seemed to have his last burst of energy that night, interacting somewhat with company, although not so much with me. That night, he got out of bed one last time to go to the bathroom--which he did not--and then returned. Ever since then, he was non-communicative and his breathing labored and gurgling.
For the past two days he's been pretty much unconscious. Yesterday, his body lay nearly still and his eyes were closed. His limbs were cool and limp. My mother slept next to him and I slept on the floor beside them.
This morning, my mother woke me up and told me that he was snapping his fingers, something he never did in his life, and that his eyes were open. I became excited. I wanted to see a last glimpse of the man he'd really been--strong, stubborn, resilient. I also wanted to talk to him and know that he understood the things I had to say. I really don't feel that I got here in time to tell him all of the things I wished he'd known.
But all he did was lay back down. His eyes remained open but glazed and unseeing. Occasionally he would involunarily jerk his body and groan while breathing out. Was he in pain? We could not tell, but I would cry hoping he wasn't. We constantly held his hands and spoke to him. I said some things, but couldn't bring myself to say others. We struggled to think of things we could do to make him more comfortable, even once moistening his lips and mouth with his much-beloved Coca-Cola, but nothing really seemed to make any difference, to him, or to us.
Once during the day, he moved both of his arms over and whether involuntarily or not, he grabbed my mother's hand and arm and gripped them.
There were no changes this afternoon and my mother became panicky. I was not sure how much more she could take. She felt sad, powerless, and exhausted. It seemed as though the trauma of this final year and a half would never end. We told him numerous times that we loved him and would take care of each other and that he could go, but he persisted.
Later, at the end of her rope, just wanting to know something, do something, my mother called his nurse from hospice and she came to the house. His nurse, Nurse Gentile, was the calmest, most gentle person I have ever met. The hospice workers are angels who walk among us. She moved him to take pressure off his left side and gave him some more medication to ease his breathing. She also told him twice that he could go.
After she left, I went back in the room. My mother and I, used to his presence and feeling that he'd been cared for, were talking lightheartedly about when she met him and then we were talking about how two of our cats were acting like nurses to him, staying with him and standing guard the past few days. All of a sudden, I turned and realized he was no longer breathing.
It was so quiet. I cannot tell you how calm and peaceful everything suddenly felt, It was like the breaths that we'd been holding so long were finally safe to let out. I felt relieved for my mother and for my father--"allah yirhamo" as my friend Bobby said. Never in pain again.
Good night, my father.
In my way, I loved you.
I arrived here on Sunday, Father's Day, and seemed to have his last burst of energy that night, interacting somewhat with company, although not so much with me. That night, he got out of bed one last time to go to the bathroom--which he did not--and then returned. Ever since then, he was non-communicative and his breathing labored and gurgling.
For the past two days he's been pretty much unconscious. Yesterday, his body lay nearly still and his eyes were closed. His limbs were cool and limp. My mother slept next to him and I slept on the floor beside them.
This morning, my mother woke me up and told me that he was snapping his fingers, something he never did in his life, and that his eyes were open. I became excited. I wanted to see a last glimpse of the man he'd really been--strong, stubborn, resilient. I also wanted to talk to him and know that he understood the things I had to say. I really don't feel that I got here in time to tell him all of the things I wished he'd known.
But all he did was lay back down. His eyes remained open but glazed and unseeing. Occasionally he would involunarily jerk his body and groan while breathing out. Was he in pain? We could not tell, but I would cry hoping he wasn't. We constantly held his hands and spoke to him. I said some things, but couldn't bring myself to say others. We struggled to think of things we could do to make him more comfortable, even once moistening his lips and mouth with his much-beloved Coca-Cola, but nothing really seemed to make any difference, to him, or to us.
Once during the day, he moved both of his arms over and whether involuntarily or not, he grabbed my mother's hand and arm and gripped them.
There were no changes this afternoon and my mother became panicky. I was not sure how much more she could take. She felt sad, powerless, and exhausted. It seemed as though the trauma of this final year and a half would never end. We told him numerous times that we loved him and would take care of each other and that he could go, but he persisted.
Later, at the end of her rope, just wanting to know something, do something, my mother called his nurse from hospice and she came to the house. His nurse, Nurse Gentile, was the calmest, most gentle person I have ever met. The hospice workers are angels who walk among us. She moved him to take pressure off his left side and gave him some more medication to ease his breathing. She also told him twice that he could go.
After she left, I went back in the room. My mother and I, used to his presence and feeling that he'd been cared for, were talking lightheartedly about when she met him and then we were talking about how two of our cats were acting like nurses to him, staying with him and standing guard the past few days. All of a sudden, I turned and realized he was no longer breathing.
It was so quiet. I cannot tell you how calm and peaceful everything suddenly felt, It was like the breaths that we'd been holding so long were finally safe to let out. I felt relieved for my mother and for my father--"allah yirhamo" as my friend Bobby said. Never in pain again.
Good night, my father.
In my way, I loved you.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?
Lately I keep thinking about leaving NY. Last night, I dreamed of moving to London. I'm guessing it is mostly related to feeling terribly lonely and poor in New York, plus the guilt of leaving my mom alone while all of this is happening with my dad is nearly killing me.
Oddly, even though my father is dying and being around them was stressful and sad, I felt relatively anti-depressed in Ann Arbor, which I guess has to do with being around my mom, one of the few people who I know really cares about me.
Sometimes I feel like the only reason I stay in NY is because it is NY, but is that enough anymore?
I feel like I am in love with a city where no one loves me....
Oddly, even though my father is dying and being around them was stressful and sad, I felt relatively anti-depressed in Ann Arbor, which I guess has to do with being around my mom, one of the few people who I know really cares about me.
Sometimes I feel like the only reason I stay in NY is because it is NY, but is that enough anymore?
I feel like I am in love with a city where no one loves me....
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Bat Mitzvot
I'm going home tomorrow.
I originally planned a few months ago to return home for my second cousin's bat mitzvah. I am not close with anyone in my family besides my mother, but my cousin is a quirkily beautiful 12 year old girl who recently got into trouble for having an online relationship with an adult male who tried to persuade her to run away from home and then, when confronted, got pulled by her ear by her father and in turn reported him to child services... So I thought she might appreciate the guidance and support of her seemingly worldly and sophisticated cousin. I also sometimes try to scrounge up hope that someday our family will be a real family where people actually talk to each other, but as it turns out, the cheap ticket I booked was timely in other ways.
My father has taken a turn for the worse. None of the medications is able to stop the cancer from spreading and so it has--to his spleen, his liver, and other pretty vital organs....His body is progressively shutting down and strange things are happening. He's delirious--very forgetful and disassociated, doing and saying odd things, and is agitated and paranoid. Doctors are uncertain of whether these things are side effects of medications he's on, or some other phenomenon called terminal agitation. Likely it is some lovely combination of both.
I have avoided thinking about what it will be like when I get there. What do I say to a man who knows he's only got a few months to live?? He's not yet at that purported "acceptance" phase, and somehow I don't think he'll ever be. As I've already mentioned, he and I both lack any type of religious belief and essentially hope. Plus, I feel like my father never really even began to truly live until a little over 12 years ago when he retired and my parents moved to Ann Arbor. It just doesn't seem fair.
So I have been driving myself a little nuts as I lay down to sleep. I try to plan or imagine what I will do and say to him and my mom when I get there. Then, of course, I imagine what it must feel like to know you are going to die. This thought makes me really panicky, for him and myself. And I get this guilty feeling that I have to take care of him and fix everything, but I can't!!
Then I start to wish I could keep my head in a rational, analytical place. I think--A) I should write down every single thought and feeling I am having in all of its profundity! I mean, if I want to be a writer, isn't this the Stuff?? Which is followed by the thought-- B) Fuck it, isn't it all really just too trite to bother?
Another part of me just wants to allow the father- and self-pity to overtake me. Stop the intellectualizing. Have an emotion. It's just too damn hard and no one can really make sense of or handle all of this! So for a few moments I become overwhelmed with a physiological response to my sadness, uncertainty and loneliness, and my brain kind of shuts down and I start to cry. But then I feel guilty and unproductive again, and return to thought A (see above).
I'd better go to bed.
I originally planned a few months ago to return home for my second cousin's bat mitzvah. I am not close with anyone in my family besides my mother, but my cousin is a quirkily beautiful 12 year old girl who recently got into trouble for having an online relationship with an adult male who tried to persuade her to run away from home and then, when confronted, got pulled by her ear by her father and in turn reported him to child services... So I thought she might appreciate the guidance and support of her seemingly worldly and sophisticated cousin. I also sometimes try to scrounge up hope that someday our family will be a real family where people actually talk to each other, but as it turns out, the cheap ticket I booked was timely in other ways.
My father has taken a turn for the worse. None of the medications is able to stop the cancer from spreading and so it has--to his spleen, his liver, and other pretty vital organs....His body is progressively shutting down and strange things are happening. He's delirious--very forgetful and disassociated, doing and saying odd things, and is agitated and paranoid. Doctors are uncertain of whether these things are side effects of medications he's on, or some other phenomenon called terminal agitation. Likely it is some lovely combination of both.
I have avoided thinking about what it will be like when I get there. What do I say to a man who knows he's only got a few months to live?? He's not yet at that purported "acceptance" phase, and somehow I don't think he'll ever be. As I've already mentioned, he and I both lack any type of religious belief and essentially hope. Plus, I feel like my father never really even began to truly live until a little over 12 years ago when he retired and my parents moved to Ann Arbor. It just doesn't seem fair.
So I have been driving myself a little nuts as I lay down to sleep. I try to plan or imagine what I will do and say to him and my mom when I get there. Then, of course, I imagine what it must feel like to know you are going to die. This thought makes me really panicky, for him and myself. And I get this guilty feeling that I have to take care of him and fix everything, but I can't!!
Then I start to wish I could keep my head in a rational, analytical place. I think--A) I should write down every single thought and feeling I am having in all of its profundity! I mean, if I want to be a writer, isn't this the Stuff?? Which is followed by the thought-- B) Fuck it, isn't it all really just too trite to bother?
Another part of me just wants to allow the father- and self-pity to overtake me. Stop the intellectualizing. Have an emotion. It's just too damn hard and no one can really make sense of or handle all of this! So for a few moments I become overwhelmed with a physiological response to my sadness, uncertainty and loneliness, and my brain kind of shuts down and I start to cry. But then I feel guilty and unproductive again, and return to thought A (see above).
I'd better go to bed.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Not Poetry
these days
my whole life feels totally pointless
i need to do something to change it
i need to do something to change it
because well, it kind of is
i need to try to write
i cannot be an actor
i cannot even be a social worker
so i wrote that tiny blog entry tonight
i hope i can keep it in mind
it's so hard
i have no confidence
and i am so tired all the time
and crave
intimacy so much
that i have a hard time being alone
and focusing on me
but i'm going to have to
i have no choice
because otherwise
i will die
Can I Write? Should I?
I like to tell people stories about my life. I'm not even exactly sure why, but as things happen to me that I think are interesting, for some reason I feel compelled to tell other people. Indeed, I probably spend too much time talking and chatting (of the IM kind) to sit down here and write.
But lately I've been feeling like, perhaps it's not so much that interesting things happen to me, as much as maybe I look at things interestingly? Is that much of what a writer is? I kind of hope so, because I don't think my prose is very good at all, but perhaps my perspective is unique?
Sometimes I have the wherewithal to almost believe that...So maybe if I just try to convey what I think about or how I process the things that happen to me, people will want to read it? I try to tell myself this, on good ego days, anyway.
I am going to try to post something here, even something short, at least every other day. But it's so hard, and I am so tired.
But lately I've been feeling like, perhaps it's not so much that interesting things happen to me, as much as maybe I look at things interestingly? Is that much of what a writer is? I kind of hope so, because I don't think my prose is very good at all, but perhaps my perspective is unique?
Sometimes I have the wherewithal to almost believe that...So maybe if I just try to convey what I think about or how I process the things that happen to me, people will want to read it? I try to tell myself this, on good ego days, anyway.
I am going to try to post something here, even something short, at least every other day. But it's so hard, and I am so tired.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
I Need Some Fuckin' Stuff!
The other day during my friend's housewarming party I had a thought--when people move into a new home, get engaged, married, or are going to have a baby, people buy them shit. I've always actually thought it a bit tacky that in anticipation of all the stuff their friends and relatives are obligated to buy them, people create these selfish, expectant, often overly optimistic lists of stuff they want.
Well, I am 31 years old now and I've never had a housewarming party--and, at the route I am going, I can pretty much guarantee the other three ain't happening. So I was thinking--people should have to buy me just as much shit as they do the others. I want a fucking registry at Target, or Tiffany's, or Macy's dammit. In fact, I think people should buy me MORE stuff.
I know the whole idea of gift-giving was to support the new couple, the new family as they embark on being the ever so important cornerstones of our society-- our key to survival as a species. But I think taking the single route is far more civilized these days--people are going to have babies no matter what, and most couples already have pots and pans and luxury bedding, but being single and barren saves the world a whole lot of money and potential trouble.
By never getting married, my parents and his will never have to shell out loads of money for an event that lasts all of a few hours and most of us wont really even get to enjoy, and I can promise that none of my friends will need to take off work, have to budget traveling halfway across the country and a hotel stay, or worry about what they have to wear. Also, I will never subject anyone I know to tales of my messy divorce.
And, by remaining unfruitful and not multiplying, I will never add another consumer of our scarce natural resources, who would surely contribute to our continued global warming (he or she might use more than one sheet of toilet paper!) nor will I risk creating another miserable teenager or violent criminal who may hurt someone and end up in jail, or otherwise put a strain on our educational, social security, or welfare systems.
So for those of you who are reading this, either via email, or blog (how did you end up here anyway??) I'll be registering at Bloomingdales this weekend, thank you in advance.
Well, I am 31 years old now and I've never had a housewarming party--and, at the route I am going, I can pretty much guarantee the other three ain't happening. So I was thinking--people should have to buy me just as much shit as they do the others. I want a fucking registry at Target, or Tiffany's, or Macy's dammit. In fact, I think people should buy me MORE stuff.
I know the whole idea of gift-giving was to support the new couple, the new family as they embark on being the ever so important cornerstones of our society-- our key to survival as a species. But I think taking the single route is far more civilized these days--people are going to have babies no matter what, and most couples already have pots and pans and luxury bedding, but being single and barren saves the world a whole lot of money and potential trouble.
By never getting married, my parents and his will never have to shell out loads of money for an event that lasts all of a few hours and most of us wont really even get to enjoy, and I can promise that none of my friends will need to take off work, have to budget traveling halfway across the country and a hotel stay, or worry about what they have to wear. Also, I will never subject anyone I know to tales of my messy divorce.
And, by remaining unfruitful and not multiplying, I will never add another consumer of our scarce natural resources, who would surely contribute to our continued global warming (he or she might use more than one sheet of toilet paper!) nor will I risk creating another miserable teenager or violent criminal who may hurt someone and end up in jail, or otherwise put a strain on our educational, social security, or welfare systems.
So for those of you who are reading this, either via email, or blog (how did you end up here anyway??) I'll be registering at Bloomingdales this weekend, thank you in advance.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Nightmare
I woke up in a panic at 5:03 am today.
I dreamed that I was back in Detroit, in my old house. My mother, my father and I were all there, my brother was not. It was night. Some malevolent being was trying really hard to get inside the house, which was pretty well-defended against invasion, yet we all knew we were trapped.
Then there was a flashback of some sort to us sitting around a dinner table with me begging my parents to move out of Detroit. I felt like they were so old and vulnerable. But they just never seemed to get around to it.
When the dream returned to the present tense--I was scared and angry because I felt like the evil could have been avoided if they had just listened to me.
My father (who really is ill but never was when we lived in Detroit) was bedridden, and though my mom was not, she continued to stay by his side in bed despite the danger. I was running around trying to both protect them and to save myself.
Soon it was apparent that there was nowhere to hide, that no matter where I could go, "they" were going to get us. Shots were being fired through windows and walls, missing me.
At the end, it was basically just a matter of when they were going to get us. My father got his gun out of the bedside table and I was proud of him for being so tough despite his illness and I thought the gun would ultimately save us. But then a man suddenly popped his head in the window. My father quickly shot him, and I thought--we will live after all! but then the man shot my father with a far more powerful gun.
I woke up shaking and sooo upset that I started crying, and though I was perfectly aware that it was not real, I could not shake the feeling for a long, long time.
I dreamed that I was back in Detroit, in my old house. My mother, my father and I were all there, my brother was not. It was night. Some malevolent being was trying really hard to get inside the house, which was pretty well-defended against invasion, yet we all knew we were trapped.
Then there was a flashback of some sort to us sitting around a dinner table with me begging my parents to move out of Detroit. I felt like they were so old and vulnerable. But they just never seemed to get around to it.
When the dream returned to the present tense--I was scared and angry because I felt like the evil could have been avoided if they had just listened to me.
My father (who really is ill but never was when we lived in Detroit) was bedridden, and though my mom was not, she continued to stay by his side in bed despite the danger. I was running around trying to both protect them and to save myself.
Soon it was apparent that there was nowhere to hide, that no matter where I could go, "they" were going to get us. Shots were being fired through windows and walls, missing me.
At the end, it was basically just a matter of when they were going to get us. My father got his gun out of the bedside table and I was proud of him for being so tough despite his illness and I thought the gun would ultimately save us. But then a man suddenly popped his head in the window. My father quickly shot him, and I thought--we will live after all! but then the man shot my father with a far more powerful gun.
I woke up shaking and sooo upset that I started crying, and though I was perfectly aware that it was not real, I could not shake the feeling for a long, long time.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Little Match Girl
Is it too late? Have I spent the better part of my young life wasting it on him?
I'm now 31. I loved him for nearly 8 years and now he is engaged to someone. She gets to wear the ring, she gets to share his life, and I just feel stupid.
I met him years ago, at a party, he was with a girl whom I was repulsed by. He was not anything special, physically. A curiosity had me later ask my friend what someone like him was doing with that girl. My friend mentioned that he had a funny website, and so a month or so after, I visited it. A blog before the age of blogs.
He was chubby awkward boy who lived upstairs from his parents and slept in a twin bed. He ate Little Debbies nightly and had a weird line on his chest from being bent over his keyboard all the time. He drove a Subaru and shopped at Structure, at Staten Island Mall.
I was the worldly girl from Michigan with more style and substance than anyone he'd ever known.
He once told his sister he would never again date anyone as beautiful as me. His confidence--I always told him he would be someone, even when he was working for others. For a long time he didn't believe me. So many nights, conversations at dinner, laughing with him, encouraging him, boosting his ego.
I was there at the hospital when his father died. I was there for him when his sister tried to kill herself. I was there through the hard stuff, when his father flipped the coffee table over in Florida, because we wouldn't take him to the track. He'd gambled the family's money away already. I was there when he was distracted by his family's nightly fights.
One night I waited for them all to come from somewhere, alone, on their porch, in the dark. As their car pulled up the drive, I thought to myself, they must just see me as some wayward Jewish waif. And now, years later, I realize that perhaps that is all he ever saw me as: the poor little match girl, happy to collect whatever scraps he drops, which must be why he must have thought it was okay to let me clean up after their meals and carry the fucking pizza boxes.
I feel like because it's been so long I cannot stop loving him, wanting him.
How do I make it go away?
I'm now 31. I loved him for nearly 8 years and now he is engaged to someone. She gets to wear the ring, she gets to share his life, and I just feel stupid.
I met him years ago, at a party, he was with a girl whom I was repulsed by. He was not anything special, physically. A curiosity had me later ask my friend what someone like him was doing with that girl. My friend mentioned that he had a funny website, and so a month or so after, I visited it. A blog before the age of blogs.
He was chubby awkward boy who lived upstairs from his parents and slept in a twin bed. He ate Little Debbies nightly and had a weird line on his chest from being bent over his keyboard all the time. He drove a Subaru and shopped at Structure, at Staten Island Mall.
I was the worldly girl from Michigan with more style and substance than anyone he'd ever known.
He once told his sister he would never again date anyone as beautiful as me. His confidence--I always told him he would be someone, even when he was working for others. For a long time he didn't believe me. So many nights, conversations at dinner, laughing with him, encouraging him, boosting his ego.
I was there at the hospital when his father died. I was there for him when his sister tried to kill herself. I was there through the hard stuff, when his father flipped the coffee table over in Florida, because we wouldn't take him to the track. He'd gambled the family's money away already. I was there when he was distracted by his family's nightly fights.
One night I waited for them all to come from somewhere, alone, on their porch, in the dark. As their car pulled up the drive, I thought to myself, they must just see me as some wayward Jewish waif. And now, years later, I realize that perhaps that is all he ever saw me as: the poor little match girl, happy to collect whatever scraps he drops, which must be why he must have thought it was okay to let me clean up after their meals and carry the fucking pizza boxes.
I feel like because it's been so long I cannot stop loving him, wanting him.
How do I make it go away?
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Update
The last post was written a few days into my new job, and as it is now, most things still stand. However, after a number of variables came together on Friday February 9th--including Celexa 60mg,Wellbutrin 300mg XL, Promethazine, Relpax, Ambien, and Xanax, plus lack of sleep, plus sex and the excitement of the possibility of love with a new man, plus enormous amounts of physical and psychic stress came together, I essentially had a nervous breakdown. I never really knew what that meant. I was hospitalized and the whole bit.
I now think of myself as the white, Jewish, female and non-famous Dave Chappelle, and my new thought that runs through my head is "I'm Dave Chappelle, bitch!"
Perhaps I will explain this all sometime soon. But for now, I just wanted to get it down here.
I now think of myself as the white, Jewish, female and non-famous Dave Chappelle, and my new thought that runs through my head is "I'm Dave Chappelle, bitch!"
Perhaps I will explain this all sometime soon. But for now, I just wanted to get it down here.
I started--
As for the new job--it's really great so far. I've done no actual labor, but I've been learning stuff and getting to know the staff and the culture and I have to say, I should have been at a place like this long ago. I was very isolated at my old job--socially, emotionally, distance, etc. This place is 20 people between 22 and 40 with similar dispositions, similar in age, and many similar interests. Many of them are transplanted New Yorkers as well and we're all here kinda looking for something, not sure what, but so yeh, it's a good place. People go out to lunch, people eat lunch in the kitchen together, on Thursday, the director's mom brings a huge batch of homemade Lebanese food for the entire staff for lunch. The work hours are pretty much 9:30 or 10 (or later depending) til around 6, 6:30, but many of the employees hang out there or elsewhere together afterwards. They play videogames in a room that is now pretty much designated for it.
As for the work, believe it or not, I know a lot more about the stuff than I realized, and I actually find a lot of it very interesting. I'm kinda getting a crash course in technological and web terminology and then will be brought up to speed on their approach and the projects they are working on. From there, it will be a lot of writing and asking questions, and breaking things down...not so far from social work in certain ways.
I do think that this may actually be a good fit for my interests and needs. I didn't realize how kinda geeky I am.
Perhaps someday I will actually make decent money and be fulfilled. Imagine that!
As for the work, believe it or not, I know a lot more about the stuff than I realized, and I actually find a lot of it very interesting. I'm kinda getting a crash course in technological and web terminology and then will be brought up to speed on their approach and the projects they are working on. From there, it will be a lot of writing and asking questions, and breaking things down...not so far from social work in certain ways.
I do think that this may actually be a good fit for my interests and needs. I didn't realize how kinda geeky I am.
Perhaps someday I will actually make decent money and be fulfilled. Imagine that!
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Great Quote
Almost everybody feels at peace with nature: listening to the ocean waves against the shore, by a still lake, in a field of grass, on a windblown heath. One day, when we have learned the timeless way again, we shall feel the same about our towns, and we shall feel as much at peace in them, as we do today walking by the ocean, or stretched out in the long grass of meadow.
Christopher Alexander, The Timeless Way of Building
More about this later...
Christopher Alexander, The Timeless Way of Building
More about this later...
Monday, January 29, 2007
Nurse
I've never known someone for such a short period of a time who has been able to hurt me so much.
Not so very long ago, I had so much hope and he seemed to also. How did everything change so fast? Was it the magic of the holidays? Was it because we are from two different worlds? What is something I said or did? Or was he just pretending from the beginning?
There were others whom I blew off just to spend more time with him. Maybe that was my mistake, I was too open, too eager--but he made me feel that for once I could be myself, and that it would be okay, and I thought I'd finally met the man who deserved my love--he works so hard and seems to care so much about others... I guess I was too nice too soon, but I really don't know how else to be.
Everyone keeps telling me that because of what an jerk he was at the end, he must've been that way deep down all along and that it's all for the best. And I am not a stupid girl, so intellectually I know that they must be right. But my heart is having so much trouble ignoring my brain as I return to sleeping alone.
And so here I am again and I'm afraid.
Not so very long ago, I had so much hope and he seemed to also. How did everything change so fast? Was it the magic of the holidays? Was it because we are from two different worlds? What is something I said or did? Or was he just pretending from the beginning?
There were others whom I blew off just to spend more time with him. Maybe that was my mistake, I was too open, too eager--but he made me feel that for once I could be myself, and that it would be okay, and I thought I'd finally met the man who deserved my love--he works so hard and seems to care so much about others... I guess I was too nice too soon, but I really don't know how else to be.
Everyone keeps telling me that because of what an jerk he was at the end, he must've been that way deep down all along and that it's all for the best. And I am not a stupid girl, so intellectually I know that they must be right. But my heart is having so much trouble ignoring my brain as I return to sleeping alone.
And so here I am again and I'm afraid.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Daddy--
Last night, in the back of the cab, after speaking to the man I am dating about my father's illness, he noted that I am seem very angry at my parents. I felt bad. I think I know what he sees. An ungrateful, attractive, well-educated middle class Jewish girl who is complaining about nothing. How do I explain to someone I've only known a month how much I have hated my dying father in the past?
Tonight, while I lay in bed trying to sleep, my mind races as I continue to wonder what I can say to him. I can barely explain it to people I've known for years and I still struggle to even explain it to my therapist. It's bizarre. In general, I cannot remember most of the incidents or the details, but instead, I have a powerful visceral memory of that time in my life. I remember feeling his absence, both physical and emotional. I remember the tension of the times when he was home. I remember nightly arguments between him and my mother--but aside from money or dinner being ready, I can no longer recall the subject matter.
I remember him flipping the dinner table over and telling us to all go fuck ourselves, and I remember him throwing a dish full of food in the garbage. I remember him locking my brother in the garage once, and outside once, late at night in the cold. My brother had to have a neighbor call our house to let him in.
I remember one day when my father chased my brother to his room, and beat him with his whole forearm and fist while my brother cowered between his bed and the woodpanelled wall.
I remember never being able to reach him, I remember him not listening to me when I desperately I tried to reason with him. I remember it making me feel powerless and crazy.
I remember him telling me I looked like a prostitute when I wore bright lipstick.
I remember him taking all of my ankh jewelry, back when that whole Egyptian thing was in, and threatening to throw them out the window when we were on vacation. I remember him trying to force-feed me meat.
I remember loving and admiring my mother unconditionally and wishing we'd leave him. I remember asking her why she didn't and her pathetic reply "because no one else will ever love me."
The two worst memories I have, in ascending order, are one summer night in during my high school years when I wanted to go out with a friend, and a horrible fall day while I was working on a science project.
The first incident, on a rare occasion of socialization, my friend had invited me to join her and her friends at some chain restaurant near a mall, and I was dressed in the short tight skirt and stockings, big gold earrings and crinkly hair that were so popular at the time. My father caught sight of me about five minutes before my friend arrived and forbade me from leaving the house. He chastized me for being dressed that way to go "a bar" to hang out with a bunch of "niggers." I tried to run out of the house to meet my friend at her car, but there was a terrible moment of
struggle--he never hit me--which has created a sick craving I have to this day--but roughly restrained me against the cold screen door. My father, while not a large man, is extremely, scarily strong. I will never forget the feeling of his one hand around both of my wrists and not being able to move. For some reason, I also have some memory that he said the word nigger and my friends heard, but that may not be true. I do know that he yelled at them and told them to leave, and I felt so completely defeated and humiliated. I remember crying like I'd never cried before and crouching in the dirt on the side of the steps thinking, what doesn't kill me will make me stronger, and that my experiences have to be used for good because, if not, the pain of going through them served no purpose.
The worst scenario I remember in even less detail, all I can really remember was my father helping me with the lettering on my science project about alternatives to animal dissection in the basement my sophomore year. Much as today, asking him for help rarely ends up being helpful at all. Everything must be done according to his terms and conditions, and if I deter from them, he yells and insults me. I always end up hurt and feeling sorry that I'd ever asked. On that particular day, likely because of the time constraint of the project being due the next day, he was extremely agitated. I don't remember what triggered it exactly, but at some point he began yelling at my brother, and we somehow ended up upstairs with my
brother barricading himself in the bathroom. My father was yelling and pounding on the door while my mother and I stood there panicking. My father may have said he'd "kill that asshole" or something along those lines, but honestly, I don't remember. He continued yelling and pounding, and my mother was begging him to stop and leave my brother alone, and when he wouldn't my mother went into their bedroom and tried to open the bottom drawer of the nightstand where he kept one of his guns. Although I had hated him so much for so long and maybe even had some of my own ideations of killing him, I knew that I could not let whatever was about to happen happen. I twisted and pried my mother's arm from the drawer. The only other thing I remember from that day was going to the hospital, and that I'd sprained my own mother's wrist and that she is told me not to tell the triage people how it really happened.
I also remember calling my friend perfect, beautiful and "normal" friend Karen later that day because I needed someone to talk to but she really didn't listen or didn't care. From that moment on, I've always felt like I could never tell anyone about my family and that and no one would ever be willing to even try to understand.
Tonight, while remembering these things, and the sometime wish for people who know me to "get it," my heart started to pound. It felt like someone was pulling on and twisting the organ in their fist. I started to cry but then stopped myself because I felt like if I really let go, I will never be able to stop.
I always feel like, aside from those memories, there is nothing so terrible that he said or did, but I do remember sometimes feeling like someday, someone would be talking to the newspapers about our family after my father killed all of us and stuffed us in the washing machine or something, and say, "but they seemed like such a nice family!"
The anger, though mostly focused on my father, is also about the side effects of his cruelty and unhappiness. From my mother, to my brother, to me--the scapegoat, who, although I escaped the brunt of his physical anger, received the trickledown vicious taunts and humiliation from my brother, who used to tell me he wished I'd get raped and once, laughingly with a friend, spit all over me--and the indifference of my mother who could of done something but did not...When I think about those nights, compounded with my social and intellectual isolation, and the daily barrage of prejudice and hate from my black schoolmates, and teachers, and community--which I was barely strong enough to deflect--I feel sorry for that little girl, but in a distant way, as though she were seperate from me, and yet it still feels too difficult to bear.
Sometimes I feel like I should be proud of what I've been through, and how strong I seem I've become. But it's hard when no one knows but me and thinks I've had it so easy and they have no idea why I feel like I started from less than zero.
Oh, also--it's only in allusion to Ms. Plath that I named this post "Daddy." I was never allowed to call him that, not even Dad. Only his name.
Tonight, while I lay in bed trying to sleep, my mind races as I continue to wonder what I can say to him. I can barely explain it to people I've known for years and I still struggle to even explain it to my therapist. It's bizarre. In general, I cannot remember most of the incidents or the details, but instead, I have a powerful visceral memory of that time in my life. I remember feeling his absence, both physical and emotional. I remember the tension of the times when he was home. I remember nightly arguments between him and my mother--but aside from money or dinner being ready, I can no longer recall the subject matter.
I remember him flipping the dinner table over and telling us to all go fuck ourselves, and I remember him throwing a dish full of food in the garbage. I remember him locking my brother in the garage once, and outside once, late at night in the cold. My brother had to have a neighbor call our house to let him in.
I remember one day when my father chased my brother to his room, and beat him with his whole forearm and fist while my brother cowered between his bed and the woodpanelled wall.
I remember never being able to reach him, I remember him not listening to me when I desperately I tried to reason with him. I remember it making me feel powerless and crazy.
I remember him telling me I looked like a prostitute when I wore bright lipstick.
I remember him taking all of my ankh jewelry, back when that whole Egyptian thing was in, and threatening to throw them out the window when we were on vacation. I remember him trying to force-feed me meat.
I remember loving and admiring my mother unconditionally and wishing we'd leave him. I remember asking her why she didn't and her pathetic reply "because no one else will ever love me."
The two worst memories I have, in ascending order, are one summer night in during my high school years when I wanted to go out with a friend, and a horrible fall day while I was working on a science project.
The first incident, on a rare occasion of socialization, my friend had invited me to join her and her friends at some chain restaurant near a mall, and I was dressed in the short tight skirt and stockings, big gold earrings and crinkly hair that were so popular at the time. My father caught sight of me about five minutes before my friend arrived and forbade me from leaving the house. He chastized me for being dressed that way to go "a bar" to hang out with a bunch of "niggers." I tried to run out of the house to meet my friend at her car, but there was a terrible moment of
struggle--he never hit me--which has created a sick craving I have to this day--but roughly restrained me against the cold screen door. My father, while not a large man, is extremely, scarily strong. I will never forget the feeling of his one hand around both of my wrists and not being able to move. For some reason, I also have some memory that he said the word nigger and my friends heard, but that may not be true. I do know that he yelled at them and told them to leave, and I felt so completely defeated and humiliated. I remember crying like I'd never cried before and crouching in the dirt on the side of the steps thinking, what doesn't kill me will make me stronger, and that my experiences have to be used for good because, if not, the pain of going through them served no purpose.
The worst scenario I remember in even less detail, all I can really remember was my father helping me with the lettering on my science project about alternatives to animal dissection in the basement my sophomore year. Much as today, asking him for help rarely ends up being helpful at all. Everything must be done according to his terms and conditions, and if I deter from them, he yells and insults me. I always end up hurt and feeling sorry that I'd ever asked. On that particular day, likely because of the time constraint of the project being due the next day, he was extremely agitated. I don't remember what triggered it exactly, but at some point he began yelling at my brother, and we somehow ended up upstairs with my
brother barricading himself in the bathroom. My father was yelling and pounding on the door while my mother and I stood there panicking. My father may have said he'd "kill that asshole" or something along those lines, but honestly, I don't remember. He continued yelling and pounding, and my mother was begging him to stop and leave my brother alone, and when he wouldn't my mother went into their bedroom and tried to open the bottom drawer of the nightstand where he kept one of his guns. Although I had hated him so much for so long and maybe even had some of my own ideations of killing him, I knew that I could not let whatever was about to happen happen. I twisted and pried my mother's arm from the drawer. The only other thing I remember from that day was going to the hospital, and that I'd sprained my own mother's wrist and that she is told me not to tell the triage people how it really happened.
I also remember calling my friend perfect, beautiful and "normal" friend Karen later that day because I needed someone to talk to but she really didn't listen or didn't care. From that moment on, I've always felt like I could never tell anyone about my family and that and no one would ever be willing to even try to understand.
Tonight, while remembering these things, and the sometime wish for people who know me to "get it," my heart started to pound. It felt like someone was pulling on and twisting the organ in their fist. I started to cry but then stopped myself because I felt like if I really let go, I will never be able to stop.
I always feel like, aside from those memories, there is nothing so terrible that he said or did, but I do remember sometimes feeling like someday, someone would be talking to the newspapers about our family after my father killed all of us and stuffed us in the washing machine or something, and say, "but they seemed like such a nice family!"
The anger, though mostly focused on my father, is also about the side effects of his cruelty and unhappiness. From my mother, to my brother, to me--the scapegoat, who, although I escaped the brunt of his physical anger, received the trickledown vicious taunts and humiliation from my brother, who used to tell me he wished I'd get raped and once, laughingly with a friend, spit all over me--and the indifference of my mother who could of done something but did not...When I think about those nights, compounded with my social and intellectual isolation, and the daily barrage of prejudice and hate from my black schoolmates, and teachers, and community--which I was barely strong enough to deflect--I feel sorry for that little girl, but in a distant way, as though she were seperate from me, and yet it still feels too difficult to bear.
Sometimes I feel like I should be proud of what I've been through, and how strong I seem I've become. But it's hard when no one knows but me and thinks I've had it so easy and they have no idea why I feel like I started from less than zero.
Oh, also--it's only in allusion to Ms. Plath that I named this post "Daddy." I was never allowed to call him that, not even Dad. Only his name.
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