Grab life by the leaves.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Hither and Yon
I'd pretend to be sleeping
When you come in in the morning
To whisper good-bye
Go to work in the rain
I don't know why
Don't know why
-Top of the World, by the Dixie Chicks
Those lines get to me. Probably because I've done exactly what they say. I've sat and listened while someone called my name, I've pretended to be asleep when I'm not, I've made an art form out of wanting to be found, but hiding all the same. I remember being tucked into the hall closet in the old farm house where I grew up, listening to my mother yell for us to come down for dinner. I'd sit, curled up, waiting. Please, I'd think. Please come find me. Please come look. With seven kids to feed, I can hardly fault my mother for not wanting to traipse through three floors of shadows, in pursuit of her youngest, most stubborn, most exasperating, and ultimately baffling child. Why, for god's sakes, was I hiding in the hall closet when I had clearly heard that it was dinner time? Eventually, when it became obvious that no one was going to come looking for me, I'd scramble out of the dark folds of winter coats and wrapping paper rolls and gallop down the stairs, away from the monsters I was sure were living in the closet I had just vacated. I'd run into the brightly lit kitchen, only to find the rest of my family calmly filling their plates and just sitting down to eat. "Where were you?" my mother would ask. "I called and you didn't answer." "Hiding," I would say, and it seemed to suffice. It wasn't true, though. I wasn't hiding, I was waiting. Waiting for something that would not come. Waiting for a pursuit, a search, a rescue from something I could not name.
In some ways, I feel like I'm still waiting. If that's the case, then I'm still unsure of what I'm waiting for. Proof that people care where I am? Evidence of others' concern for my well-being? I have those things, in spades. Maybe there's just something about feeling like I spend half my life in transit these days: more often than not, you could find me on a bus, on the subway, on the T, on the NJ Transit, or sitting, shivering in a station waiting for the doors to open, my ticket to be punched, and the wheels or rails to creak into motion. Back and forth I go, happy in each place, but in transit nonetheless. GPS, text messages, and online schedules assure anyone who cares to look exactly where I am at any given moment but it doesn't make me feel any less lost. Knowing where you are is a far cry from feeling like you belong. Landing is different from coming home. And it's only as I've gotten older - and been sought out and found and picked up and carried to safety more times than I can count - that I've realized with an aching heart that even being found when I'm trying so desperately to hide won't take away the demons from which I'm ultimately running.
Years ago, the dark hall closet held me secure but also trapped. Folded in amongst the coats and winter boots, I was hiding just as much from myself as from my mother. In the same way, running back and forth can start to look an awful lot like running away. I want to land. I want to come home. I want to unlace my metaphorical sneakers and feel like I belong. It won't always be this way, I tell myself. This is part of being young; going with the flow. Feeling like I'm riding the waves of change instead of fighting to keep my head above water is an art form I have yet to master. For now, I'll make my iPod playlists, I'll read my library books, I'll pack lightly, and I'll enjoy every hug at the end of every journey. I'm a lucky girl, I tell myself. There's love wherever I land. That is more than enough.
When you come in in the morning
To whisper good-bye
Go to work in the rain
I don't know why
Don't know why
-Top of the World, by the Dixie Chicks
Those lines get to me. Probably because I've done exactly what they say. I've sat and listened while someone called my name, I've pretended to be asleep when I'm not, I've made an art form out of wanting to be found, but hiding all the same. I remember being tucked into the hall closet in the old farm house where I grew up, listening to my mother yell for us to come down for dinner. I'd sit, curled up, waiting. Please, I'd think. Please come find me. Please come look. With seven kids to feed, I can hardly fault my mother for not wanting to traipse through three floors of shadows, in pursuit of her youngest, most stubborn, most exasperating, and ultimately baffling child. Why, for god's sakes, was I hiding in the hall closet when I had clearly heard that it was dinner time? Eventually, when it became obvious that no one was going to come looking for me, I'd scramble out of the dark folds of winter coats and wrapping paper rolls and gallop down the stairs, away from the monsters I was sure were living in the closet I had just vacated. I'd run into the brightly lit kitchen, only to find the rest of my family calmly filling their plates and just sitting down to eat. "Where were you?" my mother would ask. "I called and you didn't answer." "Hiding," I would say, and it seemed to suffice. It wasn't true, though. I wasn't hiding, I was waiting. Waiting for something that would not come. Waiting for a pursuit, a search, a rescue from something I could not name.
In some ways, I feel like I'm still waiting. If that's the case, then I'm still unsure of what I'm waiting for. Proof that people care where I am? Evidence of others' concern for my well-being? I have those things, in spades. Maybe there's just something about feeling like I spend half my life in transit these days: more often than not, you could find me on a bus, on the subway, on the T, on the NJ Transit, or sitting, shivering in a station waiting for the doors to open, my ticket to be punched, and the wheels or rails to creak into motion. Back and forth I go, happy in each place, but in transit nonetheless. GPS, text messages, and online schedules assure anyone who cares to look exactly where I am at any given moment but it doesn't make me feel any less lost. Knowing where you are is a far cry from feeling like you belong. Landing is different from coming home. And it's only as I've gotten older - and been sought out and found and picked up and carried to safety more times than I can count - that I've realized with an aching heart that even being found when I'm trying so desperately to hide won't take away the demons from which I'm ultimately running.
Years ago, the dark hall closet held me secure but also trapped. Folded in amongst the coats and winter boots, I was hiding just as much from myself as from my mother. In the same way, running back and forth can start to look an awful lot like running away. I want to land. I want to come home. I want to unlace my metaphorical sneakers and feel like I belong. It won't always be this way, I tell myself. This is part of being young; going with the flow. Feeling like I'm riding the waves of change instead of fighting to keep my head above water is an art form I have yet to master. For now, I'll make my iPod playlists, I'll read my library books, I'll pack lightly, and I'll enjoy every hug at the end of every journey. I'm a lucky girl, I tell myself. There's love wherever I land. That is more than enough.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
A few minor changes...
My life. Has changed. So much.
Here are the facts:
1. On Wednesday mornings, I take a 6 AM bus to NYC, where I work for J. all day, then take a train to NJ to see my therapist at 8 PM at night (God bless this woman for staying late to see me) and then I take a 9:30 train back into the city before returning to J.'s apartment to collapse.
2. Thursdays, I will be babysitting a little boy for a few hours, puttering around NY, taking care of things, and then taking care of Birdie for her parents' date night starting at 5 PM.
3. Fridays, I work for Birdie all day and take a bus back to Boston around 7 PM.
4. Saturdays, I collapse, do laundry, hug my best friend, go grocery shopping, etc.
5. Sundays, I go to a local horse barn where I shovel shit in exchange for the chance to ride. I also do this on Mondays and Tuesdays. I AM THE LUCKIEST GIRL EVER.
6. Right now, I am camping in the room of this girl I talk about all the time. Starting in December, though, I'll be living in the apartment upstairs with two roommates (yet to be found, inspected, and approved).
7. I'm looking for a part-time job in Boston for Sundays-Tuesdays, to help bring in more money. I've applied to every coffee shop and bookstore I could find, so we'll see what happens there.
8. I miss my boys terribly. For the sake of Rupert, his need for more consistency, and the ease of me finding a place to live, he is living at Alix's dad's house for now. I have shed more than a few tears about this, because he was (and is) the light of my life and not snuggling up with him every night has made a part of me die. In fact, I'm tearing up right now just writing this. But I know he's in a better place right now, this is temporary, and yes. Okay. It's better. I know it is. But oh, I miss him.
9. Until I move upstairs, Tucker is staying with my brother so as not to continue to overcrowd H.'s apartment with warm bodies. So I'll be counting down the days until December 1st when I can begin our staring contests again. (He usually wins. But I feed him. So technically, as the wielder of all things edible, I WIN.)
The gory deets:
Living with Birdie's family three days a week is going surprisingly well. We genuinely get along, we have fun together, and it's not awkward. (This is remarkable. I am the queen of awkward. I could make a coffee table feel uncomfortable, if I tried.)
I am eating. More. Every day. It's hard. I am trying. The end.
I applied to Yale. I wrote a damn good essay (if I do say so myself), and the office of admissions is being very understanding about the lateness of two of my letters of recommendation due to the snow/ice storm that took out power in the town from which two of the letters are coming.
Last week, when H. was helping me pack, it was quite honestly, the most exhausting 72 hours of my life, between packing up all of Alix's stuff to put in storage, going to Boston to go job/apt hunting, coming back, packing up all of my stuff, loading a moving van, driving to Boston, unloading the van into a storage unit, and then driving me and H. and my essentials to her apartment. ANYWAY - we were packing. We were tired. So, we decided to get coffee. Then, we decided coffee was boring. So, we added Bailey's. Irish coffees make packing A LOT more interesting. Please see below:
The last time I picked up a golf club was...oh wait, never. So yeah. Around 3 AM, everything was in boxes, labeled (although you can only imagine how much more fun the labels got as the hours swung by), and organized into piles for van vs. car. A couple hours later and we were up, bumping furniture down three flights of stairs and soon on our way to Beantown.
I was so tired when we got there that I almost fell asleep on the floor. Of the living room. With the lights on.
Today, I took a walk in Riverside Park, just for fun. Just because I wanted to. Because I had enough energy to do so. Because the sunshine felt nice, and I had nothing else to do, and I was happy.
Further gory deets, though: I am still swinging like a monkey on a tree between moods. Definitely hanging out in the depressed section these days, for way longer than I have been in a good long while. I'm hoping that my medication changes will help, as will all these other huge life alterations that were all done in the name of saving my sanity (even if temporarily, it's disrupting it completely). Eventually, I will even out. And so will my life. And life will go on. And all that stuff that they say, but it's true, and it bears repeating.
Holding this close to my heart tonight, and trying like hell to believe it:
You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.
Here are the facts:
1. On Wednesday mornings, I take a 6 AM bus to NYC, where I work for J. all day, then take a train to NJ to see my therapist at 8 PM at night (God bless this woman for staying late to see me) and then I take a 9:30 train back into the city before returning to J.'s apartment to collapse.
2. Thursdays, I will be babysitting a little boy for a few hours, puttering around NY, taking care of things, and then taking care of Birdie for her parents' date night starting at 5 PM.
3. Fridays, I work for Birdie all day and take a bus back to Boston around 7 PM.
4. Saturdays, I collapse, do laundry, hug my best friend, go grocery shopping, etc.
5. Sundays, I go to a local horse barn where I shovel shit in exchange for the chance to ride. I also do this on Mondays and Tuesdays. I AM THE LUCKIEST GIRL EVER.
6. Right now, I am camping in the room of this girl I talk about all the time. Starting in December, though, I'll be living in the apartment upstairs with two roommates (yet to be found, inspected, and approved).
7. I'm looking for a part-time job in Boston for Sundays-Tuesdays, to help bring in more money. I've applied to every coffee shop and bookstore I could find, so we'll see what happens there.
8. I miss my boys terribly. For the sake of Rupert, his need for more consistency, and the ease of me finding a place to live, he is living at Alix's dad's house for now. I have shed more than a few tears about this, because he was (and is) the light of my life and not snuggling up with him every night has made a part of me die. In fact, I'm tearing up right now just writing this. But I know he's in a better place right now, this is temporary, and yes. Okay. It's better. I know it is. But oh, I miss him.
9. Until I move upstairs, Tucker is staying with my brother so as not to continue to overcrowd H.'s apartment with warm bodies. So I'll be counting down the days until December 1st when I can begin our staring contests again. (He usually wins. But I feed him. So technically, as the wielder of all things edible, I WIN.)
The gory deets:
Living with Birdie's family three days a week is going surprisingly well. We genuinely get along, we have fun together, and it's not awkward. (This is remarkable. I am the queen of awkward. I could make a coffee table feel uncomfortable, if I tried.)
I am eating. More. Every day. It's hard. I am trying. The end.
I applied to Yale. I wrote a damn good essay (if I do say so myself), and the office of admissions is being very understanding about the lateness of two of my letters of recommendation due to the snow/ice storm that took out power in the town from which two of the letters are coming.
Last week, when H. was helping me pack, it was quite honestly, the most exhausting 72 hours of my life, between packing up all of Alix's stuff to put in storage, going to Boston to go job/apt hunting, coming back, packing up all of my stuff, loading a moving van, driving to Boston, unloading the van into a storage unit, and then driving me and H. and my essentials to her apartment. ANYWAY - we were packing. We were tired. So, we decided to get coffee. Then, we decided coffee was boring. So, we added Bailey's. Irish coffees make packing A LOT more interesting. Please see below:
 | |
| In case you can't read: (H) AIR (Y) Conditioner (and golf clubs) | . |
I was so tired when we got there that I almost fell asleep on the floor. Of the living room. With the lights on.
Today, I took a walk in Riverside Park, just for fun. Just because I wanted to. Because I had enough energy to do so. Because the sunshine felt nice, and I had nothing else to do, and I was happy.
Further gory deets, though: I am still swinging like a monkey on a tree between moods. Definitely hanging out in the depressed section these days, for way longer than I have been in a good long while. I'm hoping that my medication changes will help, as will all these other huge life alterations that were all done in the name of saving my sanity (even if temporarily, it's disrupting it completely). Eventually, I will even out. And so will my life. And life will go on. And all that stuff that they say, but it's true, and it bears repeating.
Holding this close to my heart tonight, and trying like hell to believe it:
You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Fighting for Sara
Something happened to me tonight that rocked me to my core. I stood, on the sidewalk, shaking and near tears for a good two minutes before I managed to plant one foot in front of the other in order to keep moving.
Let me back up a bit. Today was a day where I took care of Birdie all day and then rushed home to walk Rupert before heading to another regular babysitting gig that takes me about thirty minutes to walk to (it's a tight fit, getting out of work at 6 and trying to make it here by 7). I was booking it along, in the rapidly fading light of a New York sunset, when I looked up and locked eyes with a woman coming towards me on the sidewalk. There were a good six other people surrounding both of us, walking in either direction, but our eyes caught, and without even a millisecond of conscious thought, my brain saw her and thought: eating disorder. Her cheeks were sunken. Her eyes were haunted. She was clutching her coat around her in the chilly night air. I saw myself in her, except she was much, much sicker. Then, the unbelievable happened. She stopped me. She told me she needed help. She said she was sorry, that she wasn't asking me for money, but that she needed help. She had an eating disorder. Today was her first day home from being in a residential facility in Florida. She had gained forty pounds (she looked as if she weighed around 110). Her OCD was out of control at the moment. She had just eaten with a friend and had left the house so as to avoid purging and the door had locked behind her. She was lost and didn't know what to do. She didn't have a phone. Could I please call her sister?
My mouth hung open in shock. I ushered her over to the side of the sidewalk. I told her in the calmest, quietest voice I could that everything was going to be okay. I said I understood. I said I have an eating disorder too. I said that we would call her sister. I dialed, and it went straight to voicemail. She looked panic-stricken. I asked her how far away her sister lived. She said all the way down in Battery City and she started to shake. Hey, I said. It's okay. Look at me. It's okay. I want you to take this money. Go to the Duane Reede right here and get a Vitamin Water and drink it, okay? And then get in a cab and tell them to take you to your sister's house. Take a deep breath. You're going to be okay. Everything will be okay. She looked at me and insisted that she couldn't take the money without having a way to reimburse me. Please, I said. Please just take it. I want you to be okay. I know you can do this. You can get through this. You can fight this, even though right now, it feels so, so hard. We can fight together, okay? Her dark eyes locked with mine and she bravely asked me: You said you had an eating disorder too. Are you better?
I took a deep breath. I'm getting there, I said. I'm getting there. And so are you.
I will never see Sara again. I will never see that money again. I could give two hoots about the money, never mind the fact that I'm dirt poor right now and I desperately needed that money. She needed it more. She needed so much more than I could give her. But I'm sitting here tonight, and I am hoping with everything in me that she is okay. That she made it to her sister's. That she is safe. That she believed me, even if only the tiniest bit, when I told her she would be okay.
Everyone you meet is fighting demons. Sometimes you glimpse those demons and you try like hell to help. Please pray for Sara tonight. Tonight, I am fighting my eating disorder for her. I hope she is still fighting too.
Let me back up a bit. Today was a day where I took care of Birdie all day and then rushed home to walk Rupert before heading to another regular babysitting gig that takes me about thirty minutes to walk to (it's a tight fit, getting out of work at 6 and trying to make it here by 7). I was booking it along, in the rapidly fading light of a New York sunset, when I looked up and locked eyes with a woman coming towards me on the sidewalk. There were a good six other people surrounding both of us, walking in either direction, but our eyes caught, and without even a millisecond of conscious thought, my brain saw her and thought: eating disorder. Her cheeks were sunken. Her eyes were haunted. She was clutching her coat around her in the chilly night air. I saw myself in her, except she was much, much sicker. Then, the unbelievable happened. She stopped me. She told me she needed help. She said she was sorry, that she wasn't asking me for money, but that she needed help. She had an eating disorder. Today was her first day home from being in a residential facility in Florida. She had gained forty pounds (she looked as if she weighed around 110). Her OCD was out of control at the moment. She had just eaten with a friend and had left the house so as to avoid purging and the door had locked behind her. She was lost and didn't know what to do. She didn't have a phone. Could I please call her sister?
My mouth hung open in shock. I ushered her over to the side of the sidewalk. I told her in the calmest, quietest voice I could that everything was going to be okay. I said I understood. I said I have an eating disorder too. I said that we would call her sister. I dialed, and it went straight to voicemail. She looked panic-stricken. I asked her how far away her sister lived. She said all the way down in Battery City and she started to shake. Hey, I said. It's okay. Look at me. It's okay. I want you to take this money. Go to the Duane Reede right here and get a Vitamin Water and drink it, okay? And then get in a cab and tell them to take you to your sister's house. Take a deep breath. You're going to be okay. Everything will be okay. She looked at me and insisted that she couldn't take the money without having a way to reimburse me. Please, I said. Please just take it. I want you to be okay. I know you can do this. You can get through this. You can fight this, even though right now, it feels so, so hard. We can fight together, okay? Her dark eyes locked with mine and she bravely asked me: You said you had an eating disorder too. Are you better?
I took a deep breath. I'm getting there, I said. I'm getting there. And so are you.
I will never see Sara again. I will never see that money again. I could give two hoots about the money, never mind the fact that I'm dirt poor right now and I desperately needed that money. She needed it more. She needed so much more than I could give her. But I'm sitting here tonight, and I am hoping with everything in me that she is okay. That she made it to her sister's. That she is safe. That she believed me, even if only the tiniest bit, when I told her she would be okay.
Everyone you meet is fighting demons. Sometimes you glimpse those demons and you try like hell to help. Please pray for Sara tonight. Tonight, I am fighting my eating disorder for her. I hope she is still fighting too.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
What This Blog is Not
Who wants their blog to be depressing? Come on, let's see a show of hands! No, really, no one? Shocker. Me neither. Problem is...I've been really depressed lately. Like, can't-get-out-of-bed-without-help kind of depressed. Like sitting-in-the-shower-for-an-hour kind of depressed. But the best advice I've gotten (yay for my therapist!) is that - and I swear I have heard this countless times and yet I need to hear this a gazillion more times before it gets through my thick, thick skull - the best thing to do when you're depressed and all you want to do is lay in bed all day is to go through the motions. Get up. Shower. Put on clothes. Go to work. Do it all, even if you're miserable while you're doing it. Because it's only going to be a hell of a lot more miserable, lying in bed all day crying.
So. Going through the motions also equals writing, even when I don't feel like it, because writing is as therapeutic for me as is well, going to therapy. I've been trying for days to think of something to write about that does not turn my blog into a Debbie Downer, even if that's how I feel, so here are a few happy things.
1. I wrote a short essay for my Yale application today about my volunteering experience. I was (and am) proud of the essay, and it made me think and remember and be grateful for the two years I spent volunteering at the Northampton Interfaith Homeless Shelter. My life was changed by the experience, and I am grateful that I had the chance to be a part of so many lives even in such little ways as playing cards, serving dinner, and hearing the guests' stories. I will always remember them.
2. I got to see my amazing mother this past weekend. She listened to me, she talked with me, she helped me clean, she helped me pack, she took care of Rupert - she was my wonderful, sweet, supportive, loving mama. I am lucky to have her and I am grateful every day for her.
3. My mom and I had the following conversation after I returned from the pharmacy:
Me: What does it mean if a guy pharmacist tells me he likes my scarf? Does it mean he's hitting on me, or he's gay?
My mother: I think it means he likes your scarf.
Touche, mom.
4. I got to ride a horse on Monday for the first time in a couple of years. Someday soon I'll write a post about how much riding means to me and how excited I am that it's back in my life. Suffice to say now, settling into the saddle on Elvis's back felt like coming home.
There are big changes going on in my life right now. Some good, some not so good. But change, whether I like it or not, is inevitable and it's happening and there's nothing I can do about it. So I'm just trying to hang on for the ride and go through the motions. And limit my shower time to less than twenty minutes.
So. Going through the motions also equals writing, even when I don't feel like it, because writing is as therapeutic for me as is well, going to therapy. I've been trying for days to think of something to write about that does not turn my blog into a Debbie Downer, even if that's how I feel, so here are a few happy things.
1. I wrote a short essay for my Yale application today about my volunteering experience. I was (and am) proud of the essay, and it made me think and remember and be grateful for the two years I spent volunteering at the Northampton Interfaith Homeless Shelter. My life was changed by the experience, and I am grateful that I had the chance to be a part of so many lives even in such little ways as playing cards, serving dinner, and hearing the guests' stories. I will always remember them.
2. I got to see my amazing mother this past weekend. She listened to me, she talked with me, she helped me clean, she helped me pack, she took care of Rupert - she was my wonderful, sweet, supportive, loving mama. I am lucky to have her and I am grateful every day for her.
3. My mom and I had the following conversation after I returned from the pharmacy:
Me: What does it mean if a guy pharmacist tells me he likes my scarf? Does it mean he's hitting on me, or he's gay?
My mother: I think it means he likes your scarf.
Touche, mom.
4. I got to ride a horse on Monday for the first time in a couple of years. Someday soon I'll write a post about how much riding means to me and how excited I am that it's back in my life. Suffice to say now, settling into the saddle on Elvis's back felt like coming home.
There are big changes going on in my life right now. Some good, some not so good. But change, whether I like it or not, is inevitable and it's happening and there's nothing I can do about it. So I'm just trying to hang on for the ride and go through the motions. And limit my shower time to less than twenty minutes.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Up, Up and Away!
You guys.
Something important happened this weekend. Actually, several important things happened this weekend, but there will be an organized, itemized blog post describing them all once they have all been thoroughly sorted out and I can type with two hands instead of using one to knock on wood the entire time I type.
ANYWAY.
This weekend - I grew an inch. Yes, that's right. My entire life (well, since I was 14 and stopped growing), I have been 5'6". Quite literally, every time in the past 4-5 years that someone has asked me how tall I am and I tell them, they say something along the lines of, "Wow, you don't look it, you look much taller!" I smile and nod, and think something along the lines of, "My goodness, your eyes must be far more accurate than the measuring tool at my doctor's office."
So this weekend, my friend got fed up with the whole argument, lined me up barefoot against the wall, penciled a mark at the top of my head and I AM FIVE FEET AND SEVEN AND ONE QUARTER INCHES TALL.
(I think that quarter inch is just as exciting as the full inch before it, by the way.)
So, that was my exciting weekend.
Anyone else experience any recent bodily discoveries that blew them away? (Let's keep this G-rated here, people.)
Something important happened this weekend. Actually, several important things happened this weekend, but there will be an organized, itemized blog post describing them all once they have all been thoroughly sorted out and I can type with two hands instead of using one to knock on wood the entire time I type.
ANYWAY.
This weekend - I grew an inch. Yes, that's right. My entire life (well, since I was 14 and stopped growing), I have been 5'6". Quite literally, every time in the past 4-5 years that someone has asked me how tall I am and I tell them, they say something along the lines of, "Wow, you don't look it, you look much taller!" I smile and nod, and think something along the lines of, "My goodness, your eyes must be far more accurate than the measuring tool at my doctor's office."
So this weekend, my friend got fed up with the whole argument, lined me up barefoot against the wall, penciled a mark at the top of my head and I AM FIVE FEET AND SEVEN AND ONE QUARTER INCHES TALL.
(I think that quarter inch is just as exciting as the full inch before it, by the way.)
So, that was my exciting weekend.
Anyone else experience any recent bodily discoveries that blew them away? (Let's keep this G-rated here, people.)
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Too Much
Yesterday and the day before, the internet in my apartment stopped working. I at first assumed it was a problem with my dinosaur of my computer, but after restarting it three times and then taking it to Starbucks where it instantly connected problem-free to their wireless, I knew the problem lay deep within the mysterious cable box that sits on the TV stand. Then, for kicks yesterday, I turned on the television. "You have no cable," the screen helpfully announced. I started to cry. (Been doing that a lot these days. Including, but not limited to: on the subway, on the sidewalk. over my painstakingly-eaten dinner, when Rupert wakes me up, when I only sleep two hours a night, when the coffee shop is cold, when I can't find anything to wear that doesn't make me look 239908908920 pounds, etc.) I was definitely not crying over the lack of cable television. Selfishly, I was a little peeved about the lack of internet, since it's how I blog and Skype with my best friend. But mostly, I was crying because I just can't do this all alone anymore.
I just cannot handle every single piece of mail that comes into the apartment, addressed to both me and Alix, some of them with bills, some of them with past-due notices, many from our respective insurance coverage denying coverage or demanding astronomical co-pays. I cannot handle going to bed at 11 PM and waking up at 1 AM. I cannot handle arranging dog walkers and pet-sitters in order that I might earn the paltry amount of money that my 2-3 day a week job is bringing in. I cannot handle paying a rent that is easily three times what I can afford. And I definitely cannot handle all of this while fighting two eating disorders with every fiber of my being. I don't know when Alix is coming home. It sure isn't anytime soon.
Which is why, at the end of this month, when my lease ends, I'll be moving. Almost definitely to Boston. It's closer to a support network that I desperately need and it's way more affordable. The complications arise when I factor in that I'll still be trying to come to NY a few days a week in order to continue caring for Birdie, because, honestly, it's the happiest job I've ever had and happiness is in short supply these days. I've also just recently found a therapist who gets me, who pushes me, who I finally feel like is in my corner and is going to help me fight these demons. So...lots of bus trips back and forth! The relief I feel about getting out of this place is at least equally matched, if not surpassed, by the additional stress that this all adds to my plate (no pun intended). In the next 20ish days, I need to: write an application, get letters of recommendation, update my resume, pack up all of Alix's things and put them in storage, sort through my things and put some in storage, find a place to live in Boston, pack the rest of my stuff into a U-Haul, drive to Boston, move in, convince Birdie's parents to agree to the convoluted work schedule I'm going to offer them, find additional work in Boston, and, oh yeah, eat. Pesky little thing, this eating-every-day idea.
I'm trying to stay positive about it all, I really am. I'm trying to focus on the good things that are coming, but it's hard when ever-so-conveniently, my bipolar disorder has decided to crash and burn and become unresponsive to my meds, thus necessitating another (expensive) trip to the psychiatrist, in addition to my weekly visit to the psychologist that is keeping me sane enough that I feel I should offer her baked goods or wine in exchange for my weekly hour of tears and word-spewing.
I know that if everyone in the world stood in a circle and tossed their problems into the middle, I'd probably be pretty damn quick to grab back my own. After all, there are many, many others who have it a lot worse. But right now, all I'm feeling is the kind of overwhelmed where your heart skips and your hands shake and your eyes are constantly brimming.
Can it be November 2nd?
Or can someone step in, rub my forehead, shush me quietly, and tell me that it will all be okay and that everything will get sorted out and that somehow, I don't know how, but somehow, I'll make it through this?
I even put my own name into the prayer box last night. That was a first. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I just cannot handle every single piece of mail that comes into the apartment, addressed to both me and Alix, some of them with bills, some of them with past-due notices, many from our respective insurance coverage denying coverage or demanding astronomical co-pays. I cannot handle going to bed at 11 PM and waking up at 1 AM. I cannot handle arranging dog walkers and pet-sitters in order that I might earn the paltry amount of money that my 2-3 day a week job is bringing in. I cannot handle paying a rent that is easily three times what I can afford. And I definitely cannot handle all of this while fighting two eating disorders with every fiber of my being. I don't know when Alix is coming home. It sure isn't anytime soon.
Which is why, at the end of this month, when my lease ends, I'll be moving. Almost definitely to Boston. It's closer to a support network that I desperately need and it's way more affordable. The complications arise when I factor in that I'll still be trying to come to NY a few days a week in order to continue caring for Birdie, because, honestly, it's the happiest job I've ever had and happiness is in short supply these days. I've also just recently found a therapist who gets me, who pushes me, who I finally feel like is in my corner and is going to help me fight these demons. So...lots of bus trips back and forth! The relief I feel about getting out of this place is at least equally matched, if not surpassed, by the additional stress that this all adds to my plate (no pun intended). In the next 20ish days, I need to: write an application, get letters of recommendation, update my resume, pack up all of Alix's things and put them in storage, sort through my things and put some in storage, find a place to live in Boston, pack the rest of my stuff into a U-Haul, drive to Boston, move in, convince Birdie's parents to agree to the convoluted work schedule I'm going to offer them, find additional work in Boston, and, oh yeah, eat. Pesky little thing, this eating-every-day idea.
I'm trying to stay positive about it all, I really am. I'm trying to focus on the good things that are coming, but it's hard when ever-so-conveniently, my bipolar disorder has decided to crash and burn and become unresponsive to my meds, thus necessitating another (expensive) trip to the psychiatrist, in addition to my weekly visit to the psychologist that is keeping me sane enough that I feel I should offer her baked goods or wine in exchange for my weekly hour of tears and word-spewing.
I know that if everyone in the world stood in a circle and tossed their problems into the middle, I'd probably be pretty damn quick to grab back my own. After all, there are many, many others who have it a lot worse. But right now, all I'm feeling is the kind of overwhelmed where your heart skips and your hands shake and your eyes are constantly brimming.
Can it be November 2nd?
Or can someone step in, rub my forehead, shush me quietly, and tell me that it will all be okay and that everything will get sorted out and that somehow, I don't know how, but somehow, I'll make it through this?
I even put my own name into the prayer box last night. That was a first. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
GRE: Good RiddancE
Yale held up the hoop. I jumped through it. It's pretty much as simple as that. (And I'm so glad it's over.)
I am a freak about not being late for things, and so I tend to arrive ridiculously early. Cue Thursday morning, when I left the house at 6:05 AM for an 8:30 exam. Yeah. Like I said, a little ridiculous. But it was all good, because after inspecting my ID, giving me a key to use the restroom, searching my bag, turning out my pockets, taking my picture, and waving a metal-detecting wand over my entire person, the very kind proctor let me start my exam early. I wrote two essays, I picked out words to finish sentences, I read passages and answered questions, I scribbled math equations and figures and angles and oh dear god, the angles, but then, THEN - it. was. over. And I said YES, and then YES, REALLY, I MEAN IT when the computer asked me if I'd like to submit my scores, and then it asked me one more time and I was like DEAR GOD JUST STOP ASKING ME AND SHOW ME WHAT I GOT. And I looked, and I squealed (silently), because you guys, I did it, and it's over, and *knocking-so-hard-on-wood* I think it's good enough to get me in. I think. I'll find out my real scores in a few weeks, and I have the rest of the month to whip out some essays for the application and then November 1st will roll around and I'll have to hit SUBMIT and then YES, REALLY SUBMIT, and then probably again, DEAR GOD YES SUBMIT THIS APPLICATION NOW BEFORE I CHANGE MY MIND. And then, if nothing else, it will be out of my hands.
When the exam was over, and I was doing a happy dance in front of my locker, I had a moment. I had a moment that all at once thrilled, terrified, and saddened me (mostly because it was gone in a matter of seconds). For a moment, I felt like I was more than a number on the scale. I felt like I was smart. I felt like I had used my brain, my brain that I was given and of which I am sometimes proud, to learn and to study and to work hard and then to sit down and do the very best I could and it had meant something. I had done something with my brain other than count calories. I had done something that I was proud of other than lose weight. And even though that moment was brief, it gave me the tiniest bit of hope that there will come a day when maybe, just maybe, I won't always feel like a failure. Because then, right then, I felt like something more. I felt like me again.
I am a freak about not being late for things, and so I tend to arrive ridiculously early. Cue Thursday morning, when I left the house at 6:05 AM for an 8:30 exam. Yeah. Like I said, a little ridiculous. But it was all good, because after inspecting my ID, giving me a key to use the restroom, searching my bag, turning out my pockets, taking my picture, and waving a metal-detecting wand over my entire person, the very kind proctor let me start my exam early. I wrote two essays, I picked out words to finish sentences, I read passages and answered questions, I scribbled math equations and figures and angles and oh dear god, the angles, but then, THEN - it. was. over. And I said YES, and then YES, REALLY, I MEAN IT when the computer asked me if I'd like to submit my scores, and then it asked me one more time and I was like DEAR GOD JUST STOP ASKING ME AND SHOW ME WHAT I GOT. And I looked, and I squealed (silently), because you guys, I did it, and it's over, and *knocking-so-hard-on-wood* I think it's good enough to get me in. I think. I'll find out my real scores in a few weeks, and I have the rest of the month to whip out some essays for the application and then November 1st will roll around and I'll have to hit SUBMIT and then YES, REALLY SUBMIT, and then probably again, DEAR GOD YES SUBMIT THIS APPLICATION NOW BEFORE I CHANGE MY MIND. And then, if nothing else, it will be out of my hands.
When the exam was over, and I was doing a happy dance in front of my locker, I had a moment. I had a moment that all at once thrilled, terrified, and saddened me (mostly because it was gone in a matter of seconds). For a moment, I felt like I was more than a number on the scale. I felt like I was smart. I felt like I had used my brain, my brain that I was given and of which I am sometimes proud, to learn and to study and to work hard and then to sit down and do the very best I could and it had meant something. I had done something with my brain other than count calories. I had done something that I was proud of other than lose weight. And even though that moment was brief, it gave me the tiniest bit of hope that there will come a day when maybe, just maybe, I won't always feel like a failure. Because then, right then, I felt like something more. I felt like me again.
 |
| I hope. |
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Get Yourself Some Enemies
One day, someone who had something against me did something to Alix. It was rude. It was uncalled for. It was degrading, immature, and embarrassing. It was also, depending on how you look at it, maybe not that big of a deal. To me, it was. And I make no apologies for that. It was an act of meanness against someone I love and it pissed me off. I didn't let it go. I found the person who did it, I raised a stink, and you can bet your sweet ass that I made an enemy out of it. You know what? Good for me. I stood up for my girl. And I'd rather have that to say for myself than be able to claim that I've walked through life without making any enemies. I have a spitfire personality, I often speak without thinking, I jump, guns blazing, to defend those that I love, and the following words probably wouldn't spring to mind to describe me: Zen-like, easy-going, or anything that involves the metaphor of things rolling off of ducks' backs. But you know what I am? Loyal. Loving. Compassionate. Empathetic. Hard-working. The picture I paint isn't always pretty. But it's nothing if not authentic. I'm not perfect, not by a long shot. But I'd rather stand for something than fall for anything.
By the way, that quote is by Winston Churchill. Cool guy. Not a clue where the idea for this post came from, but yeah, here it is. Off I go, guns blazing, into my test tomorrow. But first! To sleep!
Come onnnn, Friday
Yesterday, Birdie would. not. stop. crying. I think she's teething. Cold washcloths, pacifiers, and being carried around constantly were all only semi-effective. In the light of this morning, I feel much more sympathy for her, but yesterday, much of my sympathy was directed at yours truly.
Yesterday, Rupert ripped open two trash bags and strewed their contents across the entire apartment.
Yesterday, I got started on a crying jag around 2 PM that didn't stop until I fell asleep. No joke. I was even sniffling as I said goodbye to Birdie's mom and met with Rupert's future dog-walker.
Today, my alarms (two of them) didn't go off and so I am up an hour later for studying (MY LAST DAY OF STUDYING BEFORE MY GRE HOLY SHIT HOW DID THIS HAPPEN) than I had planned to be.
Today, my studying will be interrupted to go buy an alarm clock. Preferably one of those big honkin' black ones with red digital numbers that has an obnoxiously loud alarm. Missing my test because I didn't wake up is NOT in my plans for tomorrow.
Tomorrow, my test (that will determine my entire future...no, I am not the slightest bit dramatic or fatalistic or prone to blowing things wayyyy out of proportion) is at 8:30 AM. This is during rush hour, which means all the trains will be running wonky, and cabs will be impossible. I will most likely be leaving two hours early and showing up at the center by 7 AM.
Sooo....can this week be over now? Please?
Yesterday, Rupert ripped open two trash bags and strewed their contents across the entire apartment.
Yesterday, I got started on a crying jag around 2 PM that didn't stop until I fell asleep. No joke. I was even sniffling as I said goodbye to Birdie's mom and met with Rupert's future dog-walker.
Today, my alarms (two of them) didn't go off and so I am up an hour later for studying (MY LAST DAY OF STUDYING BEFORE MY GRE HOLY SHIT HOW DID THIS HAPPEN) than I had planned to be.
Today, my studying will be interrupted to go buy an alarm clock. Preferably one of those big honkin' black ones with red digital numbers that has an obnoxiously loud alarm. Missing my test because I didn't wake up is NOT in my plans for tomorrow.
Tomorrow, my test (that will determine my entire future...no, I am not the slightest bit dramatic or fatalistic or prone to blowing things wayyyy out of proportion) is at 8:30 AM. This is during rush hour, which means all the trains will be running wonky, and cabs will be impossible. I will most likely be leaving two hours early and showing up at the center by 7 AM.
Sooo....can this week be over now? Please?
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