On being friends

I've never been that good at being friends. Growing up, I always felt wrong and strange and out of place. I envied loners and their seeming ability to detach and self-sustain. I lack any such ability. I'm consistently over-attached to everything, people, places, things and even ideas and perceptions. I am the opposite of self-sustaining: I am self-consuming. My inner voice tells me to starve myself physically so that my being will feed on itself - the only thing that is leftover. On the other hand, I know that the consumption of my spirit will bring about only more of me, perhaps in a more concentrated form. I become obsessed with transformation: ANY transformation be it physical, immaterial or imagined. I have a need to constantly change. I used to think that I was just using a trial and error method to perfect myself. Now I think the need to perfect is really a need to transform and, ultimately through this process, nourish myself with myself. Living with this vortex inside my heart makes it difficult to share myself with other people. The vacuum inside sucks everything in, but doesn't keep it all. The rejected parts and pieces of my consciousness swirl around in my head so quickly and quietly; the light of my true nature is obscured, like the stars are obscured on a cloudy night. The map of my internal sky is lit brightly, but I am confused by it, because it looks so different to me from moment to moment.

This same cloud covers me when I am trying to make friends and build relationships. I desperately crave authenticity, but because I am unable to decipher my true feelings, I also deeply fear the unknown inside. The desire to know my personal truth makes me seek out people who resemble the image of myself that I cannot see and the fear of that same truth makes me avoid openness with those people. Because my own mirror is smoky, I look for reflections of myself in others and their perceptions of me. This makes me a dutiful, caring and affectionate companion; ultimately, though, when I fail to find what I am looking for, the relationship simply fades away or escalates into conflict. Once the satisfaction of creation wanes, the need for destruction sets in.

None of this is to say that I intend to hurt people. I don't even believe I really intend to hurt myself. This cycle of creation and destruction seems to be inevitable for me. Even as I begin to understand myself and why I may never have true self-knowledge, my past experiences and behaviors make it difficult for me to trust myself in relationships. I am protecting myself from disappointment, but part of me doesn't feel qualified to be in a relationship. The emptiness inside me cannot be filled, but also cannot be stopped. I WILL hurt the people I love, no matter how hard I try.

Even as I write this, I feel that it isn't true, or isn't the whole truth. I can see that I am rationalizing to an extent. I see that I may have imagined this emptiness to explain away the hurt and disappointment the people in my life have caused me. Even that fact, though, proves that it's all true: no matter what I do, it's never enough. Even if I accept that other people are also responsible for my pain, it brings me no relief, just the desire to try again. The cycle of creation and consumption continues. I am a second-rate Shiva. I cease to create because I fear that my own creations will consume me in the end or I will consume them and have even more power to create and destroy.

I am trying now, to create without fear, or rather to embrace my fears as part of the creation process. If I am able to truly connect with another person, perhaps I will be able to connect with my own self. Sharing consciousness may lead me to an acceptance of myself. I don't know how, but I feel compelled to try. And so the cycle will continue on: creation, consumption and ultimately destruction. Maybe this time I'll be able to skip the doubt and anger and just accept the process for what it is: necessary.

I'm afraid

Up to this point, my posts have been infrequent and superficial because I fear rejection and I'm naturally very guarded. I have tried to let myself believe that just the act of writing down anything I'm thinking would push my boundaries and make me a better person. It's total bullshit. Generally speaking, when I write for myself, everything I write is true and authentic. Something about knowing that people COULD read this blog (even though they clearly don't) made me tense up and feel all the insecurities and anxiety that have caused me to be disingenuous and lack emotional authenticity my entire life.

The truth is, I'm afraid: scared shitless that I will have to look back at these posts and really see myself. I've always been so afraid of rejection and not being accepted by others, but the real problem is that I can't accept myself. I don't even want to. I want to keep hoping that if I hold out for something better, I could change completely. Not like a caterpillar into a butterfly; I am not satisfied with my own potential. I want to become something completely different, to change species.

This inability to commit to myself and my own potential has created a myriad of problems for me. Not the least of which is my quasi-dibilitating eating disorder and my toxic relationships with my immediate family. I am writing this today because I am not doing all that well with managing my illness. My husband is gone on a business trip and I find myself missing him, but also pleased to have some time to myself so that I can openly self-loathe, not eat, over-excercise and take laxatives. It is not good. I don't know what I'm going to do. My life is too good to waste like this. In some ways it's better than before, but I don't know why I can't stop hurting myself. It's like treading water in the shallow end of the pool: if I could just put my feet down and stand up, I could stop wasting time and energy in an ultimately purposeless endeavor.

Turkey Day

I know it's been awhile since I posted....I've been very busy with important things like drinking and cavorting and pissing people off.

For anyone out there who is reading or who might care, I thought I would extend my best wishes for a day full of overeating, over-drinking and general merriment. Or perhaps your day will be like mine and will involve flying to a city you don't really care for to spend time with your in-laws who will undoubtedly look to you and your husband to distract them from their early retirement blues.

Right now I'm sitting in my office with nothing to do...damned economy...wearing a cashmere beret because our neighbors next door control our thermostat and they are also apparently polar bears. I feel slightly guilty about doing nothing, but not guilty enough to actually try to think of something productive to do. I only feel guilty enough to desperately want a drink. Perhaps in a later post I will explore the ways in which boredom, loneliness, guilt, excitement, congratulations, celebrations, television, movies and physical activity seem to make me want to drink, or perhaps not. For now, I'll just post a copy of something I found on the interwebs today.

For your enjoyment, with an eye towards the holidays.

Austin City Limits

Why, why, why did no one tell me that I would be coughing and sneezing up dust for hours afterward? Wonderful time, lovely music but I could've used a warning about the black lung.

A few thoughts:

Being EMO at an outdoor festival in Austin doesn't really work. Well, it might make you more angry and bitter, therefore more EMO so maybe it does work. In related news, someone needs to buy the Kills a map and then point out to them that Austin is REALLY far South and then tell them that their paying fans don't really care to hear their histrionics about their shoes catching fire. News flash - you're a fucking rock star and get paid to play your overrated music; get over it! All that said, they did look pretty miserable and the sun was shining directly on them.

Middle-aged women depress me. I officially vow to go straight from my mid-thirties to a decrepit, unseemly, crotchedy bitch in my late eighties. Even the 24 oz Bud Light I was drinking couldn't erase the images of potato-bodied ladies jiggling their arms and swaying their asses to Blues Traveler. I wanted to break out the brain bleach. Please note that I am not saying that OVERWEIGHT middle-aged women depress me. I am not discriminating. They are all sad. It makes me even sadder to think about their kids getting high without them or their husbands at home watching golf, too bored and worn-out even to fantasize about making it with Diane Lane.

Jack White is UH-Mazing. That's all.

If you haven't seen Gnarls Barkley or CSS - do it. You'll thank me. Saw them at Stubbs on Friday and it was, like, totally the best thing ever, or whatever. It really was though. Cee-Lo's voice is unbelievable and Lovefoxxx from CSS definitely knows how to put on a good show.

For now, that is all...I'm very tired and I can't stop coughing up Zilker Park dust and weed smoke.

Oh - one last thing. A note to all you frat boys out there- rolling your weed in swisher sweets isn't gangsta...it's disgusting. Just smoke it straight like everyone else. It's like spraying glade on a piece of dog shit. Just a small request from a humble non-smoker. Thank you for your time.

Presidential Pagent

So I think we should have a Presidential Pagent instead of all these debates and boring ads. I thiink the candidates should have to put up or shut up. You want to be president, fine, but you better be prepared to model swimwear and sing "You light up my life" or arrange furniture.

Ok, I know what you're thinking. That's ridiculous and socially irrelevant. So we'll update it a bit. What about a cage match? A competitive hunt? Oh wait, I've got it....let's just Oprah, Michael Phelps, Miley Cyrus, Tiger Woods, Jennifer Lopez, Sean Penn and the cast of Gossip Girl decide. Sorry sorry I forgot a religious figure....so just choose between the reanimated corpse of Jerry Fallwell or Mel Gibson...it doesn't matter either way.

It's sad that our current political system is so convoluted that letting a group of silly, overpaid celebrities pick our president gives me more hope than trusting that the American public will make the right decision come November. I mean, I hate guns and I love animals and I would gladly sacrifice a few pheasants to have this whole mess over with. I have more faith in the organization that made Chuck Liddell a star than I do in our electoral system. Unfortunately none of these options is viable because Sarah Palin clearly has the edge...think about it - she's already won pagents, she is an avid hunter and she could obviously kick Joe Biden's ass. That guy is about as threatening as a Clay Aiken eating a cupcake. So I guess I take it all back.

a conundrum

So I know no one out there is reading this, but maybe writing it out will make me feel better and cause me to come to a conclusion.

I used to live in Los Angeles; more specifically, I used to live in a Northwestern suburb of Los Angeles filled with trophy wives by the dozen and Porsche Cayennes as far as the eye can see. It's the kind of place where 14 year olds carry large Louis Vuitton handbags and have $150 highlights and yet the patron of the local sushi restaurant refuses to tip the single-mother/community college student waitress because his sake isn't exactly 86 degrees. A place where 60% of the people don't need a steady job and yet still feel it's appropriate to comment on how homelessness is only a problem for people with no work ethic. All this isn't to say that it didn't have it's upsides. I spent many hours hiking it's lovely trails through the mountains down to the beach and enjoying the pristine, smog-free weather and beautiful, multi-colored sunsets.

I worked at a small recruiting firm (we used to say "boutique" although I can't think of anything about our tiny, one-room office with dumpster-dive recovered furniture and prime access to the outdoor restroom that would conjure the word) where we specialized in finding self-involved Financial types jobs that would give them "more upward mobility and opportunity for growth". Basically this involved convincing a bunch of boring bean-counters that they weren't too boring to change jobs. Why would I do this? It paid extremely well, I got to drink at work and I never had to wear make-up or a suit jacket. All in all, it wasn't a bad way to spend three years and it supported my handbag habit ( I know, I know, I was just judging the poor tween girls for their handbags, but keep in mind, I'm nearing 30 and don't own ANY Louis V).


During my time there I worked with several interesting characters. Perhaps I will go into greater description of the 20 plus people who worked with and for me during my tenure, but this story only requires the description of one. We'll call her Midwestern Farmer's Daughter (or Miffed for short). She is from a corn-infested midwestern state where the only things to do are drink, fuck and operate meth labs (not necessarily in that order). She is nearly six feet tall with pretty blue eyes and a chip on her shoulder the size of a great lake. She has the kind of ashy blonde highlights and giant, torpedo-shaped fake breasts that only come with her brand of Midwestern insecurity. She gets absurdly drunk and shouts at strangers, but is hilarious and joyful in an almost childlike way. She is both articulate and inane: refreshingly abstract and tediously literal. No friend of mine has ever caused me so much laughter or so many tears.

When I met Miffed she hated me immediately. On my first day of work she refused to make eye contact with me and spoke about me in the third person when I was sitting right there. It took three weeks of achingly subservient courtesy to get her to even acknowledge my existence. When she finally did acknowledge me, it was to alternately boss me around and inform me that my position within the company was not even remotely secure.



"I hate to be the one to tell you this, but there is no way that you're going to last here if you don't learn how to document your activity more accurately. We just don't have time to show you more than once and you're clearly not getting it so I just think you might want to be a little more careful..."

"I'm so sorry! I know it's a huge inconvenience, but do you think you could let me know exactly what you're talking about? I am just doing it the way I was taught. Thanks so much for your help!"

"UGGGH. Whatever. If you don't know already there's no point."

This continued for several months. After she saw that I was sticking around, we entered a more cordial period of detente. She explained to me that she had gotten so used to people coming and then going immediately that she decided not to "get attached" to anyone. This new phase of our relationship was characterized by her asking me to do things for her and me jumping at the chance to break my back bending over backwards to do them. I had workplace Stockholm Syndrome. I even began to empathize with her situation. I felt lucky that instead of berating me or criticizing everything I did, she would throw me a bone or two; even though she always reminded me of my place when I seemed too comfortable.


"Um, excuse me Miffed...I am going out to grab some lunch. Can I get you anything?"


"Sure, as long as you don't completely screw it up like last time...."

Eventually she came to see me as someone she could trust with more than sandwiches and we became REAL friends. Sometimes she was wonderful. She helped throw me an amazing birthday party, she listened to me when I needed to talk about my family and she encouraged me to find a therapist to help with my eating disorder. Without her help, I honestly might not be sane right now. Other times, she wasn't so wonderful. She was constantly competitive about everything. Looks, clothes, music, our husbands. It didn't help that we were in actual competition in the workplace. If she was having a bad day, she belittled me about everything. Whenever someone new entered our world she was insanely jealous of my attention and then immediately tried to show me how awful the other person was. Then when I agreed she would accuse me of being a petty bitch and tell the other person I didn't like them. She lied to me more than a dozen times about things that don't matter at all.


When she moved to Austin she stopped returning my phone calls and started telling coworkers lies about me. I really don't know why. She had previously gotten pregnant and had a miscarriage. I was angry with her at the time but I still visited her at the hospital and every day at her apartment during the three weeks she missed work. I also convinced her husband to stay with her (he told me this) and did her job for her while she was gone. The last real conversation we had was about a "going away" party she was throwing for herself. I attended and made food for this party, but was unable to plan it myself because I was going to be away the whole week prior. After I moved to Austin several months later, our boss called me and told me that he didn't want me working for him anymore. After some prodding on my part I found out that Miffed was concerned that I would be competition for her in this small market and that she had lied to him about my performance and integrity and had basically gotten me fired.

Now, in the end, being rid of my job and association with this crazy man was a good thing, but I was still terribly hurt by her actions. This was about four months ago. Ten days ago she texted me wanting to reconnect. I haven't responded. I don't know what to do. On the one hand, she was a conniving bitch that used every trick in the book to screw me over. On the other hand, I do care about her and she was kind to me at times. Part of me is so curious about why she would contact me that I want to text her back. The other part of me realizes that no good will come of this.

UTI

So I know I haven't posted in awhile - primarily because no one is reading this and I'm very fragile and need constant validation in order to put myself out there - also because I've been very busy with Fantasy Football.

I think I started off these posts on the wrong foot - thinking that I would create a persona that reflects how quirky, original, neurotic, compulsive, but ultimately loveable I am. Clearly that isn't going to happen. I'm not that talented. I have had a few things happen in the past few weeks, and it may be cathartic for me to share, so here goes.

My in-laws were here for ten days. They stayed with us in our one-bedroom apartment. It was a very nice visit. I drank several bottles of alcohol and didn't exercise once.

My job is fantastic. Clearly someone with my predisposition to inferiority complexes and anorexia would think that sales is a "good fit" for my personality. It is leading me to drink heavily and eat cheesy food.

I am such a good writer that I can't even write an original speech for my sister's wedding. I am borrowing it from Pablo Neruda. Neruda's dark, skewed vision of love should go over perfectly with the Nascar-employed, Bible-belt wearing, FBI agents that will be there. (I know that you can't actually WEAR a Bible Belt, but then again, I AM preparing a Neruda poem for a wedding toast at a wedding where there will be no alcohol so my intelligence is clearly in question here).

My Fantasy Football prospects are dimmer than an eco-friendly lightbulb in Matthew McConaghey's beach hut. I'm 0-2 and I have Tony Romo. Way to go Hank Baskett. Fortunately I had SEVERAL beers on Sunday to ease the pain.

All of these things are leading up to the subject of this post - UTI.

My pee is red and I'm still in horrific pain. Well, at least I get to go to my awesome job. That should at least distract me.