…the almost right word

Last night, I dreamt that I was on a plane to South America. 

It’s been too long since I had an adventure — an out-of-the-country, speak-in-a-foreign-language, spend-way-too-much-money adventure. In less than a month, I will be on a beach in Mexico. Adventure? Definitely.

Nevertheless, I find myself waking up on this cloudy Monday morning with a sense of dissatisfaction. Reasons? 1. My job is neither challenging nor stimulating. The pay is wonderful, and the experience will be good (in a long-run sort of way), but working from home limits my social interaction and I miss feeling…exhilarated. 2. My friends are either a) broke or b) addicts (in many cases, both) which means that I no longer “fit” (I did, at one time, fit quite well. Or maybe I just fit enough. But now I don’t fit anywhere). 3. Numbers one and two mean more t.v. time, when I really should be doing something productive like reading or writing. 4. More t.v. time means that, when the week begins again, I just want to spend all day watching t.v. It’s like a downward spiral that simultaneously feels good and dangerously self-indulgent. 

I’m not depressed. I’m not even really that unhappy. I’m just very dissatisfied. 

Remedies? Graduate school, perhaps, if I get in. If not? Major revisions will ensue. The kind where drafts are tossed through the open window, words are crossed out and marked in red. The kind where I list goals and write myself notes like “More books, less t.v.” The kind where I reconsider the next two years, feel very lost and then, eventually, excitement..??..hope..??..optimism..??

A change has come. Even more change will be coming.

Today, it’s Sufjan Stevens (To Be Alone with You), Jose González (Crosses), Halloween, Alaska (All the Arms Around You), The Album Leaf (Eastern Glow), matt pond PA (New Hampshire), Ryan Adams (Wonderwall), pajamas and coffee.

It does restore some sense of faith in our democracy, some pride that, perhaps, we can elect a leader who represents the people. 

The best post I have seen today was at I am Fuel, You are Friends. The images alone represent my hope for our country and, dare I say, my pride. 

Thanks Nico for the image link.

Each day wears me down until I can hardly desire to think. And yet, I try, so hard, to digest life.

The dogs aren’t going to stick around much longer and I need to prepare myself for the inevitable, the possibility that we will have to actually choose when they will go. They have been my sisters, the only sisters I have ever had, the only siblings I have ever had, the only stable and steady friends I have ever had. Sometimes I feel guilty — I have been so far away from both of them for so long. And I find myself, unexpectedly, returning to the desire to be in two places at once, the familiar feeling of my childhood, of growing up between two households. And then I find myself suffering from the deep, intense, indescribable fear of knowing that, eventually, inevitably, I will lose them all — my parents and my sisters.

Sometimes I feel so much fear and anxiety and sadness. I start to think, hesitantly, perhaps I do need something to help me just get through it all. But I’m stronger than that and I know it is best to feel, no matter how difficult it is.

I guess that is why I enjoy being busy — less time to think. Because the minute I step outside to get some space and break up my day, it gets difficult to bear the quiet, the lull. It is then that I really think. And I suffer. And I cry.

No matter what I convince myself, death is probably the thing I fear most. Not mine, but the death of those I love.

An excerpt from my personal journal.

Last night was the culmination of my “career” as your friendly neighborhood server. 

I will no longer dress in a white, button-down, collared shirt and tie. I will no longer polish silverware. I will no longer ask if ice water or bottled is preferred. I will no longer watch as everyone around me sips their wonderful red wine or sangria. Fuck sangria. 

Part of me can’t believe that, in all likelihood, I will never work in another restaurant again. The service industry has been my life since freshman year. That’s eight years of pulling espresso. That’s eight years of steaming soy milk. That’s eight years of clearing plates.

On my way to the restaurant yesterday, I was (as expected) overcome with a sense of nostalgia. I knew it would hit at some point — I used to love this job. It’s always a great social outlet, and the nights usually end with free alcohol. Somewhere along the line though, I fell out of love. I found myself stuck in a job that made me increasingly bitter.

I can’t waste any more time waiting tables — it keeps me from making progress. I need to focus on what I want to do, the type of person I want to be. So that the next time my plane is landing at LAX, I am not reminding myself that I was supposed to be a magazine columnist at age 26, or that I was supposed to have a great little loft apartment in Manhattan and a job at Amnesty International. It all feels like mere dreams, but it can be real, if I just leave behind my going-nowhere job and do.

It was not until yesterday that I understood Schmutzie’s (of Five Star Friday fame) strange, numerical and poetic posts. They are a part of the x365 blog movement in which “people all over the world are making a list of 365 people they’ve met during the course of their lives - people who left an impression and whose name they remember - then they’re randomly writing a set number of words about someone on their list. They’re doing this once a day - for a year.”

The idea not only appeals to me, it inspires me.
I’m not ready to commit to such an endeavor, but I’m certainly intrigued to read others.
Read how it began here and how to begin a list of your own, here.

The other day I was told that a friend had been deported by la migra. I had known him for three years — he was the badass dishwasher at my old restaurant job. He had worked there for almost a decade, in the back of the kitchen. He worked hard and never complained. “Asi es la vida,” he would tell me. I always agreed, despite the fact that my life was drastically different from his.

One night he was mopping the floor and the next he was hauled off to jail and, presumably, back to Mexico. I find myself wondering what, exactly, made him deserve this. Granted, he was an “illegal immigrant.” However, he held a steady job in a popular local restaurant for years. He showed up on time. He made a contribution to our society — he did the job that you can hardly hire Americans for. In this Southwest, every kitchen, in every restaurant, is comprised of Latin American workers. They prepare our meals (and they do it damn well) and wash our dishes. They refill our water and bring us clean silverware. And we? We deport them. We send them back home, which is hardly home anymore, with no money and, I imagine, with little sense of pride. They come here to work hard and we disregard them as “illegal.”

It’s easy to forget that these things happen. If I were still living in Northern California, I wouldn’t see it as often as I do here. I wouldn’t even dwell on a concept like “la migra.” Hell, if I hadn’t decided to study Politics and Latin America in undergraduate, I may not even know much about la migra at all.

Yet here I am, learning that someone I considered a friend, a familiar face, someone who made me laugh and smile, has essentially disappeared from my life. In all likelihood, I will never see him again. Why? Because he wasn’t born here. Because his parents weren’t born here.

The border is a vague line that so many cross everyday, with such great difficulty. And I can easily go on, eating my spaghetti and sipping my Cabernet (or Tequila) like nothing is happening around me. But something is happening and it is only now that I cannot ignore it.

The title translates to “La migra comes to triumph.”

I step outside. It smells like rain and the air is moist. I avoid my GRE studying — how can I spend my only free time studying? I lean against the post and light a match. It’s from a Fish Market matchbox. I am instantly pushed back in time, to all the meals I ate with my grandmother. Every. Single. One. I feel the tension and the awkwardness. And then, suddenly, ease. And hilarity. I wave out the flame on the match and watch as the ash falls to the ground. I pick up my phone and call the now unfamiliar number to be answered by a familiar voice. A voice of such memories. I know that she probably can’t talk. It’s amazing how difficult a one hour time difference can be. Still, it’s nice to hear her voice. It’s as if she is around the corner or ten minutes away. I can hop in my car and go. It’s as if the actual thousand miles between us is surmountable. I think I miss my people.

I get home from the wedding. I open the gate, slowly, remembering how I came home last night, even more exhausted than I am tonight: I crept into the house quietly, aware of my movements, of the noises I made. It’s as if she** can still hear me. It’s as if she’ll bark at any moment. She’ll be curious. She’ll come and smell me, checking to see where I have been, who I have been with. But she doesn’t bark and she doesn’t come to sniff my clothes. And even when I sit down next to her, and put my face near her nose or ears, she won’t hear me when I speak her name. Today, while she was sleeping, I bent down and kissed her nose. I held my head to her forehead and cried softly. I told her that I love her.

As for the wedding, I felt more-or-less anxious the entire time. That is, until I decided to leave. The minute I stepped outside to head to my car, I relaxed. The evening was beautiful. Something about the ceremony elicited many unexpected emotions (perhaps this was the cause of my anxiety). Suddenly I found myself with desire. Desire to have that, to get married, to say the words, to exchange vows and rings. I had to step back and ask myself, where is this coming from? I have always been convinced that marriage is not for me. I have seen too much divorce, too much pain. I have always doubted the notion that any couple can last. People change. People grow. What if two people change and grow in opposite directions? Why should there be restrictions placed on this growth? On the change, or on the directions? We should feel free to be who we are, despite who we are with.

I cried at the service. When I first saw her walking down the aisle, I teared. She looked gorgeous, glowing. They were surrounded by white lights, white rose petals. They were married in front of giant elephants, giraffes and zebras.*** It was beautiful. Over the course of the evening, every time I saw them together, I cried. The minute she approached me, I feebly attempted to express my emotions. I held back tears, somewhat unsuccessfully.

There is so much to feel and think and see. Sometimes it’s just too much. Even at this very moment, typing this post, or while listening to music, my eyes begin to water. My eyes pour over, again and again. I wonder, is it because, for the first time in years, I’m no longer on antidepressants? Is this why the flood gates have opened? Is this why I feel so much these days?

Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing it all at once, and it’s too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that’s about to burst… And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can’t feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life…

* An excerpt from my personal journal.

** The “she” in this passage is my dog, Whitney, who has grown deaf in the past year (she’s about 15 years old). She lives with my dad (in Los Angeles, California), who I visited this past weekend in order to attend the wedding. I wrote this while staying in my childhood bedroom.

*** The wedding was held at the Natural History Museum in Los Angeles, California. It was a virtual Garden of Eden.

Three years ago, I lived the most routine, dull version of my life that I can imagine: calorie-counting, coffee-drinking, binge-eating. Alone. Alone. Alone. Searching for a sense of control (If only Ian Curtis had waited…perhaps it would have passed. Perhaps they would have found the right medication? Perhaps he wouldn’t have decided to take his life). I spent so many years in a dark cloud. To not be all-consumed by depression is like a new-found freedom. It’s eating spaghetti whenever I want. It’s wearing a dress and feeling beautiful. It’s crying because things can be incredible. It’s listening to “Disorder” on repeat and dancing alone. It’s being able to write about more than just my body, my skin, my loneliness. It’s being able to finally write about what’s real.

* an excerpt from my personal journal

For nearly ten years, I was a vegetarian. Okay, a pescetarian — Because honestly, how can anyone give up sushi?

It was actually an easy transition into vegetarianism. I was never a big meat-eater. At a young age, I knew that I didn’t want to eat meat.

The first time I realized this was on a trip with my dad. We were heading on one of our usual father-daughter camping trips in our old-school, Volkswagen van. He was patting the steering wheel while Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young played on the stereo. He stepped on the gas in order to pass a freight truck. As we gained speed, I noticed that this truck wasn’t filled with boxes, but with sheep. They seemed almost stacked on top of one another, as if they were just freight. This image haunted me, but I also couldn’t bare to look away. I was, and have always been, an animal lover.

Years later, I remember celebrating a Thanksgiving. The turkey was done, sitting on a cutting board in the kitchen. I felt for the bird. For a moment, I wished that I could rewind time and spare its life. Yes, it’s cliché, but I promised myself, in that moment, that I would give up meat.

At the beginning of this year, something changed. It wasn’t as if I woke up one day and thought, “That’s it. This vegetarianism thing has been fun, but I’m ready to be a carnivore again.” To be honest, I never thought I’d go back to eating meat. I was quite comfortable with my dietary choices. I never second-guessed myself. Suddenly, it became something I craved. I would watch friends devour a hamburger and my mouth watered with desire. It seemed that nothing would satisfy me like a Reuben sandwich or a cheeseburger. So I did it.

I was wine tasting in Northern California. We stopped at a small deli and the only thing on the menu I could consider was a Reuben. Needless to say, I bit the bullet. I loved every second of it.

Last night, while enjoying a wonderful Elk Tenderloin with Garlic Mash Potatoes, Morels and Applewood Smoked Bacon, a thought occurred to me: Did my vegetarianism have anything to do with my ten-year on-again-off-again struggle with depression? Could meat be a serotonin-booster, like exercise? Could this have been part of the reason that, after leaving home and going to college, I withdrew and became the most anti-social version of myself I could imagine?

Today, I feel so far from depression. Could meat have been part of my cure?

this is the second in a series of posts i am writing about my relationship experiences…more to come.

there is a quote from carrie on sex and the city (that i somehow cannot find) concerning relationship red flags and the ease at which we, as women, ignore them (perhaps men do too?). i have identified with this quote all too well. it often appears that i am capable of ignoring so much in a relationship, i.e. my own happiness.

we met in college. i stayed with him way too long. when i finally gathered the courage to end it, i went back for more.

i knew before we even got involved that it would be a bad idea. i had seen a good friend experience horrible things with him — endless arguing and emotional abuse. somehow, i convinced myself that things would be different between he and i, things would be better, we would make more sense. it took me a long time to admit that the relationship was unhealthy. it first had to cost me a few friendships. then, it had to cost me any sense of financial stability (he had no job and i was almost entirely supporting him). we were codependent, to say the least.

he screamed at me almost every night — i would wake up, at some point, and realize that he had all of the blankets. when i attempted to pull some away from him, and cover myself, he would yell at me, call me names. every time, i swore to myself that i’d end it in the morning. it continued like that for almost a year. once, he gave me an unexpected gift — a beautiful orchid. hours later, when the arguing began, he used the gift as ammunition. he was an addict, and i fell, effortlessly, into his addictions.

i saw all the red flags, i just chose to ignore them. the emotional abuse worsened over time. it was as if he had no concept of me as a human being. he never knew how to respect me.

what am i trying to do with this post? i want to write honestly. i want to be true to myself and my past. i don’t want to gloss over my errors in judgment or the way these experiences affected me. i want to delve into the world of emotional abuse without naming people, without painting a picture of myself as some helpless, love-struck fool. emotional abuse is hard to recognize — people yell and argue, people slam doors out of anger, but there is a line whereupon it becomes abuse and, for the abused individual, it becomes self-destructive. i want to address this line, this vague notion of abuse that is not manifested physically. emotional abuse can be even more dangerous, more consuming. it can be easy to ignore. it can become so familiar that you seek it out. perhaps, on some level, you believe you deserve it.

i must have believed this. why else would i have subjected myself to such treatment for so long?

one night, after we had broken up (we were still seeing one another for an ongoing bout of the unhealthiest break-up sex known to humankind), he called to come over. i finally stood up for myself — i told him no. later that night, while changing in my room, i was startled when i noticed someone at my window. he was watching me, waiting for me to notice him and let him in. i did. that was the last time we saw one another.

one might expect an act of “closure.” we never had one and i’m okay with that. i have vague memories of missed calls and unanswered text messages — i was finally able to ignore his attempts to reach me. i don’t mean to imply that i “learned my lesson.” sometimes you have to repeat bad habits before you realize that they’re just that.

from the age of eleven to twenty, i spent my summers at a sleep-away camp. i literally fell in love with this place. i always felt the safest and most comfortable during those summers. i knew that, one day, i would have to give it up — we all have to grow up eventually. but i never wanted to leave.

this past week, i went back to this camp. it had been six years since i was last there. we had a reunion — all the kids that i grew up with, the kids who are my age, came back to celebrate…to remember the summer we all spent together, ten years ago, when we were sixteen. the same summer of my first kiss. to me, this was the most significant reunion that i’ll ever have. high school was never that important to me, especially when compared to camp. camp was magical.

turns out, it still is. for all the kids that still spend their summers there, camp is still magical. i couldn’t help but wonder…what it would be like to return, to get a job there and spend my summer running around in flip flops, smiling and happy? i am one of the most nostalgic, sentimental people i know. i admit this easily. doesn’t it make perfect sense that i would yearn to be back at camp? my happiest memories are of that place.

nevertheless, i believe there is a line that we are forced to draw in this whole “growing up” process — i’m just still trying to figure out where my line is, where i have to draw it. would it be “unproductive” of me to go back to camp? would it be stepping back, falling behind? am i doomed to struggle with my heavy sense of nostalgia for the rest of my life?

i haven’t been in many relationships in my life. i am hesitant to refer to my last two as “relationships.” i guess, according to the dictionary definition of “relationship,” (noun 1 the way in which two or more people or things are connected, or the state of being connected; 2 the way in which two or more people or groups regard and behave towards each other; 3 an emotional and sexual association between two people) the word is applicable. however, considering the amount of actual “relation” involved in these “relationships,” i’m not inclined to use this word lightly.

i’ve been considering a post series about my experiences, but i keep grappling with the typical stuff: is this inappropriate? am i crossing a line? is it fair? what do i really want my blog to “be?” and, lastly, what if this is read by the wrong person?

my conclusion is: sleep on it. perhaps things will be clear in the mañana. or after two glasses of wine.

* title inspired by (read: euphemism for “stolen from”) the unnarrator

when?
some day!
in eight years!

this, is me. (actually, it’s when harry met sally) i’m not worried about turning 30. actually, i’m not even worried about turning 35. i’ve got plenty of time. it’s forty that worries me. and i can’t help but hear this conversation in my head, as if suddenly i have become sally albright who orders her chef salad, with the oil and vinegar on the side. and the apple pie a la mode…but i’d like the pie heated, and i don’t want the ice cream on top. i want it on the side. and i’d like strawberry instead of vanilla if you have it. if not, then no ice cream, just whipped cream. but only if it’s real. if it’s out of a can, then nothing.

not even the pie?

no, just the pie. but then not heated.

I bite my nails. I’ve been biting them since I developed teeth. I remember, back when my parents were still married and life was seemingly normal (before I was five years old), one of them took me to Toys-R-Us. Do those stores even exist today? We used to visit them regularly, in anticipation of upcoming birthday parties. I was a semi-spoiled only-child who could not leave without receiving a gift of my own. Usually barbies. But on this particular day, when one of them brought me to Toys-R-Us, I was bribed.

“We’ll buy you this teddy bear if you stop biting your nails,” I was told. Keep in mind, I was not more than four years old. The teddy bear in question was immediately dubbed “Heart to Heart Bear,” mostly because that’s what was sewn on his shirt. I treasured him. Beneath his nightgown, there was a pocket in his little teddy bear chest. And, in this pocket, was a plastic “heart” that had a button. When the button was pressed, it would feel like a literal beating heart. Eventually I removed the heart because it interrupted my sleep (it was, no surprise, subsequently lost).

After the divorce, he traveled back and forth with me, in my backpack. I never slept without him. That is, until I became a teenager, got a boyfriend, and decided he was better off at home. Of course, he came with me to college. However, I decided to leave him behind when I spent a year living in South America. I remember coming home, at the end of that year, excited to see him. I was 21 years old.

He still sits on my bed, and occasionally rests under my arm while I am sleeping. Yes, dear Reader, I still sleep with a teddy bear.

Needless to say, I still bite my nails. Bribes + young kids = unsuccessful, in my humble opinion.

Here he is, in all his torn and aged glory. My father’s mother wrestled him from me once, when I was still young. She insisted he be washed. She carefully removed his sleeping cap and his nightgown in order to put him in the washing machine. Though we are still in possession of his nightgown, the sleeping cap was never placed back on his head (and it, too, was subsequently lost). I always resented her for that.

Now, when I notice that his nightgown is falling apart, I immediately rush to a sewing kit. Perhaps I’ll never be ready to “grow up” and pack him away in a box in the attic. Perhaps he’ll always be sitting on my bed.

there is a new phrase that has been buzzing around like a mad, honey-crazed bee…..”quarterlife crisis.” being that i am literally in the midst of my own “quarterlife crisis,” i feel particularly adept at writing about it. although i wonder, every day, if i am actually just suffering from my own conditioning. i am not depressed. in fact, i may not even be in need of medication. and so, i begin to consider the possibility that this is, indeed, a “quarterlife crisis.” the rumors are true, dear reader, it exists.

so, what do we actually do in a quarterlife crisis? do we turn to our blog, determined to “make something?” do we enroll in classes and pursue a master’s degree? do we get a good-paying-job-that-isn’t-all-that-enjoyable until we figure out what we really want?

i have no idea what i really want.

on that note, the a.r.w. recommends a semi-new web-series, from the guys that brought you my so-called life (marshall herskovitz and edward zwick): quarterlife. originally, the “show” was released in thirty-six “episodes” — each episode was anywhere from seven to ten minutes long. there was even a regular “time slot” — new episodes aired once a week. eventually, the show got picked up by nbc. it was canceled after one episode. now i’m not saying that you can compare quarterlife to my so-called life. but i watched all thrity-six episodes. go figure.

(warning: not the most uplifting post)

a guy i knew was found dead yesterday. i worked with him when i first moved to santa fe. and we spent many evenings drinking together, running into each other at bars, etc. he was one of those guys that everyone seemed to know. his brother found him. he died alone, on his couch. he was, by far, one of the loneliest people i have ever known.

things to remember, so as not to forget:

• he had a great laugh, a memorable laugh. he laughed loudly and awkwardly.
• he referred to every girl as “baby,” but somehow it was always endearing.
• he talked endlessly. he had stories to tell and always wanted to draw laughter out of everyone.
• he laughed with you at his own stories.
• he wrote poetry. i never got to read any.
• he was thoughtful. considerate. insecure with beautiful women.
• he sat next to me at the first strip club i ever went to. he talked in my ear and we laughed together.
• he was always talking.

For what is it to die,
But to stand in the sun and melt into the wind?
~Kahlil Gibran, from “The Prophet”

it’s been a heavy day today. heavy days remind me of the years i spent “struggling with depression” (understandably, and, i use quotes only because the phrase is so cliché). i thought about food every second of every day. when my mind wandered, it was to evaluate my stomach or my arms.

—-> had i gained weight? was i losing weight? what could i do to lose more weight? if only i could be that scrawny kid that i see in pictures, the one who seemed happy and carefree, who i could hardly remember. <—-

i gave up cheese, avocados, cream cheese, sour cream, mayonnaise, spaghetti (yes, it’s true). i turned myself off from craving. i only allowed myself desserts on weekends. the anxiety was always present. occasionally i would fall apart and binge.

i managed okay — i went to classes in school (for the most part); i spent a year studying in chile; i lived with other people; i even dated at one point when the depression and anxiety seemed to be gone. but i was never happy; i cried a lot; i slept too much; i hid in my bedroom to avoid my roommates. i always felt so un-”normal.”

when i step back, and look at things honestly, i admit to myself that i never really “beat” the depression, the anxiety or the eating disorder…not until i moved to santa fe, at the end of 2005. gradually, the anxiety lessened and food became a secondary concern. i even began to feel more “normal.”

i was never bulimic. i’m not even sure one could call it anorexia.

when i have a heavy day, i worry that it will all come back. i know better, but the worry is still there.

* the title for this post could also be: “why i can’t return phone calls today”

some people turn to a book, some turn to exercise…when i’m in a funk, i turn to grey’s anatomy.

does this say something terrible about me?

when i was in my late teens, my grandfather died. i was never terribly close with him. i remember we played hide and seek when i was a kid. i remember i used to fit beneath the coffee tables in my grandparents’ apartment. the tables were covered to the floor in long, cream-colored table cloths which left no trace of my secret presence beneath them. when he died, i thought a lot about those games of hide and seek.

we drove up to the bay area for his funeral. he was being buried in my grandmother’s “pink palace” — the name she had given to a freezing, pink-marbled mausoleum in which she had purchased two spaces, one for his coffin and one for hers. we sat in the front row of the service, in the reception room of the pink palace. and when my mom began to cry, she literally wailed. she shook uncontrollably and bellowed horrible, sad cries. i sat by her side, arm around her back, waiting for calm.

she was presented with an american flag, for her father’s service in the army. she kept the flag on her dresser for some time. i remember noticing it whenever i visited. and years later, when her mother, my grandmother died, my mom packed the flag in her suitcase for a trip back to the bay area. she no longer wanted the flag, no longer needed the memory of her father so present in her life — she gave it to her brother.

when her eyes tear, she reminds me of him, of my grandfather. he cried easily. i never knew if it was his age, the dementia, or his endearing humanity. today, when my mother’s eyes tear, i see him. and sometimes, it’s like i’m back at the funeral, sitting by her side, holding her hand. while she cries.