Monday, June 25, 2007

The Chemicals Between Us, Ma'Lalo

This is a subject that I have avoided. It is a long and complicated topic, and one that I don't feel as if I can adequately convey in any logical sense. I believe I touched on it once, but to really talk about it is like opening Pandora's box in my mind. I've waited a few days to think about it, to form some sort of cohesive train of thought. So here goes nothing--

Matt. He has been my best friend since I was 13 years old. (I'm now 21 in case you hadn't noticed) We met in 8th grade and instantly hated each other. Then for some crazy reason, one day we started talking to each other and were immediately inseparable. In a way, we have two relationships. We've always had this crazy sort of chemistry and can never stay away from each other for long. On the other hand, we also have this incredible friendship. Each part of our relationship plays into the other, while somehow remaining distinct. He is my first love. It's funny, but no matter who I am involved with, there is always a part of me reserved for him. I try to get past it, to avoid it, but it's always there. The same thing happens with him.

I've had a lot of problems in relationships because my boyfriends would become insanely jealous of our friendship. This is probably due mainly to two things: 1) I have terrible taste. 2) I always made it clear that my friends were more important than my boyfriend. Friends were there before the guy, and would probably be there after the guy. This is probably self defeating, because I have only ever had any reason to think two of the relationships I have been in to work out. I pretty much don't believe in 'happily ever after' or the idea that relationships can last a lifetime. Well, sort of.

Matt and I are both rather bullheaded individuals, and my belief in friends before lovers clashes directly with his habit of completely giving his entire being over to a girl he thinks he is in love with. Most of the time I let him know he is making a mistake and simply wait for the inevitable failure. This is because I am conceited and have very high standards. Funny how I never stick to them. Anyway, Matt, just like me, has terrible taste. He constantly picks girls that abuse him and walk all over him. So I generally know that in the end whichever girl he is with will break his heart and he will find out what a huge mistake he's made, and of course come running back to apologize to me for not listening (not that he ever listens the next time). Of course then I have to help him put himself back together and the cycle continues. Don't take that as a bitter statement. It doesn't bother me. It never has. I'd help him put his heart back together a thousand times if I had to. It just seems the timing is always wrong for us. I pick a loser, and then shortly thereafter Matt is single. Matt gets a girl, and then I dump the loser. We always just miss each other in passing, and are both too stupid to realize that we should just stop picking losers and go for who we really want: each other.

Of course, thanks to our common stupidity and overall bullheadedness, we have disagreements from time to time, and don't speak for a few months. Sometimes, due to circumstances, we aren't able to contact each other (Matt was in the Army and spent time in a group home when he was 16). However, we always end up making up and it's as if nothing ever happened. Perhaps sometime we just need space. Recently, we had what was probably the worst falling out (there's never a fight. Simply one of us declaring we don't want to speak to the other because of some idiotic mistake on their part) that we've ever had.

The last time I spoke to him was November 14th, the day after I got my license. I've emailed him every month since then, apologizing and letting him know how my life was. I had begun to give up on ever seeing him again, when the day after I asked Erik to leave (did I tell you about that? No? Well I guess I shall have to do that soon) I recieved an email again. Interestingly, I had spoken to his mom that morning when I called to check up on him, and found out that he had been kicked out of the military and was living in a motel with his girlfriend and her 3 kids. (Yikes!)

In his email, he told me he wasn't mad and that he still was my best friend. He also mentioned that his girlfriend was verbally abusive and would barricade him in a room saying she would call the cops if he dared even touch her (he wouldn't ever even push a woman) and it was clear that he was terribly depressed. I emailed him back trying to cheer him up and let him know he could call me, and the next day got a reply saying that his girlfriend had hit him the night before and barricaded him in a room, telling him what a worthless piece of shit he was and how he should go back to Naomi (a horrid exgirlfriend who treated him like utter trash. He only just recently started getting over her). That was the most heartless thing she could have possibly said. He said he was packing up his things and leaving, and that he didn't know when he would be able to talk to me again, but he would let me know as soon as possible that he was ok. That was about 4 days ago.

I have no idea whether or not he actually left, or if he is perhaps still there, or if he is sleeping on the street somewhere. For all I know, and this is actually rather likely, he's hitching rides on the highway trying to get back home to California. I'm worried about him. I miss him. I'm overjoyed that he doesn't hate me. Mostly though, I just want to know that he is alright. I told him to come home and if I had to, I would drive out to Colorado and get him. I hope he is safe.

--dragon Read more!

Friday, June 22, 2007

From Hell To Breakfast, Part II

Scattered through the box you will find about 6 pairs of glasses: a child sized pair with round frames and a blue tortoiseshell pattern, a larger pair of silver half frames , a pair of reddish brown plastic half frames with chips in the lenses, a brown plastic pair with squarish lenses, a blue plastic pair with even squarer lenses, and a wide purple metal pair with very square lenses. These are all the glasses I’ve owned since I began wearing them in sixth grade. Each of them represents a period in my life and reflects a slightly different version of me. I wore the first pair from sixth until eighth grade. They were definitely glasses made for a preteen. They were sort of dorky and bookish, which is what I was in middle school. Around the middle of eighth grade I got the silver pair. They were sleeker and more grown up, but still had that nerdy look to them. Then in ninth grade I started wearing contacts almost exclusively. I was very “goth” and didn’t feel that heavy black eyeliner went well with glasses.
I continued to wear contacts until eleventh grade, when I started wearing glasses again. That was when I got the reddish-brown pair. I still wore contacts, but I liked the option of wearing glasses if I chose. They were sort of nerdy but by that time it was cool to wear thick rimmed glasses. The next pair I got I was pressured to get by a friend, and I never really liked them. I didn’t feel they fit my face and they were too narrow, so I took to wearing my old glasses even though the prescription was expired. Interestingly enough, at that point in my life I made a lot of decisions based on what others thought, usually to similar results.
The last time I got glasses I actually got two pairs: the blue pair and the purple pair. I like the purple pair the best, but I do wear the blue pair on occasion. I picked them both out myself and I like them better than any pair I’ve previously worn. They are distinctive and unique, but aren’t weird looking, which is what I strive for. Each pair of glasses embodies a different me. With the first pair, I was just beginning to establish a separate identity for myself. Prior to that point, fashion and the way one looks never really affected me. With each progressive pair of glasses, however, I refined both my outward appearance and my outlook on life. The bolder my choice in eyewear, the more definitive my personality became. I see my glasses as a very recognizable extension of myself. It is almost that a person can see my glasses without me attached and just know that they are mine. For me, they are a definitive accessory, and a necessary one at that. I look to each March (the month I get my eye exam) as a chance to renew myself. As such, I look at my old glasses as monuments, however small and inconsequential, to all the people I have been.
Buried deeper in the box is a black Sharpie. I rarely make tentative statements. Generally, when I say or think something, it is the next best thing to being written in stone. It takes a lot to convince me to change my mind once it is made up. Sharpies are very permanent. You don’t write something in black permanent marker unless you intend for it to be there a long time. Not only is it permanent, it is thick and bold. This very much embodies my habit of making bold, certain statements.
At the bottom of the box is a folded up piece of black canvas. Upon closer inspection, one discovers that it is a full length trench coat. If pressed, I would have to say that this is my absolute favorite possession. My mom bought it for me for Christmas a few years ago. It has survived a move to Kansas, a trip to Mississippi, and about 5 moves within Butte County. When I could bring only what I could carry out on my back, I have brought this coat. It is a shield, insulating me against the world. It acts as a buffer when I don’t want to be bothered and grabs attention when I feel unnoticed. It is dramatic, worn, sturdy, and unique. This is the single most defining item I own. I intend to own this coat in some incarnation or another for as long as I can stand up to put it on. Often I wear clothes that are distressingly normal and I feel like a fraud. It’s only when I put on my trench coat, my Converse shoes, my black eyeliner, that I feel like the real me.
My belongings are scattered from hell to breakfast. I have left pieces of myself in nearly every county in the state. But there are a few things I will not leave behind. The reason why these items are so important is not based on their usefulness or practicality. None of them is particularly valuable. If I were in a bind and decided to hawk my most precious belongings at the nearest pawn shop, I’d be lucky to get $50 for the whole lot. The value in these objects lies in the fact that they are irreplaceable. Sure, I could buy a new Sharpie or a new pair of chopsticks. A quick trip to Hottopic in the mall and about $80 would buy me a new trench coat. However, it wouldn’t be the same. My trench coat is missing all the buttons and is faded thanks to the time my mom thought that “dry clean only” was merely a suggestion. My chopsticks were bought in an oriental specialty store in Starkville, MS. These things have stories. They remind me of me, a person I all too often forget. I can buy new dishes. I can buy a new bed, a new computer. These things mean nothing to me. Each time I move and have to leave more and more behind, I realize that everything is cheap and replaceable. The memories and dreams that each of these represent are not. That is why I always pack these things first. Read more!

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Seeing Red

A few days ago I bled. Me + pregnant + bleeding= bad. It was 3 am and I woke up feeling like I had wet my pants. I would have been a happy to find I had, knowing what it could have been. But it was red. RED! Bright-fresh-copper-scented blood. (yeah, too much detail, I know) My first thought was Oh, Shit. My second thought was how incrediby bright it was. When I cut myself, or pick at a scab, it's not nearly that red. Much darker, and in far smaller quantities. It only lasted about 20-30 minutes, but it seemed like a whole hell of a lot more blood than one would expect, and far more than my midwife seemed to think. Granted, she didn't see it, but still. I was most likely overreacting, but thus far I have had no complications at all, everything has been smooth sailing and the only real drawback was the 12 weeks of daily vomiting. I was totally unprepared for it.

Needless to say, I was scared.

I had visions of a 10-week premature baby, no pre-delivery time off work to prepare for the baby, and (odd how this seemed important) missing Ozzfest. I kept thinking that I had nothing for him other than the small basket of baby clothes my stepdad bought for me. I spent 3 hours online looking up possible causes (placenta previa being the most likely) and what kind of survival rate a 29 week old baby faces. What kind of problems the wee one might face. I don't think I am adequately conveying how incredibly frightened I was. I'm still worried about it. Yesterday at work I kept thinking, What if it happens again? What if it happens while I'm at work? Boy, that would be awkward. Although knowing my manager, she would probably drive me to the emergency room herself.

I was so scared.

I'm still scared.

--dragon Read more!

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Break Out the Booze! Or Not..

So today is my 21st birthday. Wee. Normally one would be expected to celebrate by consuming massive amounts of alcohol and waking up the next morning with a tattoo of the word "Mom" or "Bubba" in an inappropriate place. Not that I ever intended to do any of that (not big into drinking or partying), but given that I have no choice but to abstain, I find it to be somewhat irritating. I hate not being able to make a choice, but rather being forced to follow a certain course due to circumstances. Since I can't, I wanna. Oh well. Tough cookies.

I can get over that, of course. There are plenty of other things one can do on one's birthday, 21st or otherwise, and we had planned a nice afternoon of shopping (since I asked for new clothes, as I am totally lacking in the wardrobe department, doubly so since now my stomach seems to be rebelling against my jeans...damn pregnant-ness...), going to the farmer's market and having dinner, and then finishing off the evening at Open Mic. Pretty much a typical Thursday afternoon, other than the shopping. My brother stayed the night for a few days prior, and my mom was supposed to come over after work. And, of course, just like every other year, something happened to ruin it. My mom came down with the stomach flu or something and had to leave work early, come here and get my brother, and then go home-- hopefully in time to avoid throwing up all over the dash. Poor mom. She looked and sounded terrible. It just makes me mad that every year something happens to screw up my plans. It's enough to make a person stop having birthdays altogether. Oh well. I guess we'll just do nothing, we're broke and can't afford to do anything fun anyways.

--dragon Read more!

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Hostage

This post was inspired by a recent post of Thordora's. (I just noticed it said "Thoradora" and not Thordora. Silly me.)

The black ball-- it's always there... maybe the size of a pebble sitting in the pit of my stomach, filled with all the hate and rage I've ever felt just begging for the right moment to be released. It's the evil little voice that makes me tear others apart, when I think of how disgusting morbidly obese people are, or how I hate those stupid skinny rich wenches that get everything handed to them and have never had to work or think for anything. It's the part of me that forms no attachments and knows that I could just walk out the door with whatever money I could get my hands on, a change of clothes and a stack of CDs, and just drive and never look back. The part that hates my little brothers for being weaker than me and succumbing to my dad's delusions in the midst of his illness, for giving him the ammo he needed to leave my mom and leave me feeling like I had to always be there for her and protect her from herself.

When I get angry it grows and grows from a leaden ball in the pit of my stomach to a black rage that envelops my entire body and holds sanity and reason hostage, that makes me scream and shove and punch and claw viciously at my own arms to avoid reaching out and tearing the skin off of the person that I am angry at. Anger is so completely insufficent to describe how I feel in those moments. It's an absolutely mindless rage. Murderous. I feel like a hostage when it takes over-- I am sitting inside myself watching and screaming myself raw trying to stop, to calm down and walk away. It takes every ounce of my strength to get it under control and I am exhausted once the ordeal has passed. Even when things are fine and I have no reason to be angry, I can feel it smoldering, waiting for the right time to escape.

Things have gotten better. I am taking medication and reason and sanity are much louder and firmer, holding the rage at bay. But still, I feel it sitting there, waiting. Waiting to drag me down again. Each time it gets worse-- blacker and stronger. I fear that one day, it will devour me, and I will be left as nothing more than a timebomb waiting to explode, a mindless hate that will destroy everything in its path.

--dragon Read more!

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Little Things

I got a pair of shoes today-- brown and light aqua blue skate shoes on sale at Payless for only $7!!! Two of my favorite things, new shoes (am I the only person who absolutely loves the smell of new shoes?) and great prices! yay!

I convinced Erik to look for another job. I had to indirectly threaten to kick him out to get him to do it, but he is finally looking for one. I really hope he keeps it up until someone actually hires him. The other day we went to McDonald's and I asked for an application for him, and he flat out refused to apply at fast food. That really pissed me off. I work at Taco Bell, and I am far more qualified than he is. I can be a receptionist, secretary, direct care staff, management, retail, cashier/ teller, and probably more than that. He has very few skills, namely direct care and cashier, and it really irritates me that he thinks he can be choosy. I asked him if he thought he was better than me, and he said no, he was just better than them. So I told him he was not better than anyone, and he'd better get off his high horse, because right now I could care less whether he likes his job. Right now anything that offers a steady paycheck is the goal. Hopefully he can find a job other than fast food, but if no one hires him, he better suck it up and take whatever he can get. I know that's gonna be a fight if it comes down to it, but I pray it doesn't come to that. I may even have to get a second job, and that is incredibly hard for me, considering that I get so tired working a full shift right now. If I had to work more than 8 hours, I don't know if I could pull it off. I hope things get better. I can't stand the constant fear of "one more thing".

--dragon Read more!

Saturday, June 9, 2007

Some Different Things

Let's start with the good things that have happened the last few days.

I have been trying to get a cell phone for a while but with my credit and history with a certain cell phone company, and the fact that cell phone bill costs are absolutely criminal, I haven't had any luck. My only options would be a prepaid cell phone or a local wireless company that offers unlimited minutes (local and long distance), text messaging, etc. for $45 a month, with no credit check!, which is what I've been wanting to do. The problem has been that although their plan is awesomely cheap, you have to pay full retail price for the phones in order to sign up with them. My best friend had them for the last few months, but she travels a lot and while the plan is great, the service area is not as good as the national carriers. So a few days ago she and her fiance' added her to his plan and she got a new phone. And best of all, she's going to give her old phone to me! yay! Now I can think about getting rid of my rediculous $100/mo. land line bill.

Also very awesome: my mom and stepdad got me a crib and a stroller. They got them used, but the crib is rather new and does conform to current safety standards (I checked) and the stroller is in great shape and as far as I can tell, also conforms to today's standards. So yay! Now I actually have some baby stuff!

Lastly, we are pet sitting for my best friend this week, and her cat and my cat absolutely love each other. They are totally fun to watch, although they're kinda rambunctious at night.

And here's for the bad news:

We finally got Erik's car in to the shop and they replaced the catalytic converter and a gasket in the exhaust system, as well as unclogging the exhaust. Unfortunately, they found the problem that started it all-- a crack in the rear exhaust manifold. So we have to get our hands on a new manifold (the only one the guy at the repair shop could find was around $270 and I found them online for about $130, so he told us to buy it online and then he'll install it), and then pay the $170 for labor to have it installed.

On top of the troubles with Erik's car, I filled up the gas tank 2 days ago and started smelling gas when I was driving. I already had an appointment at the repair shop to look at my brakes, so I took it in and told them about the gas smell too. It turns out I have a leak in the gas line, and that needs to be replaced, as well as the front brakes and the rear wheel drums (?), which will cost about $360.

So between the two of us, neither of our cars are really working (Erik's is drivable but the more we drive it the worse the problem is going to get), and it's going to cost more than $650 to get them both fixed. Sucks Sucks Sucks.

On the plus side, I think I was finally able to convince Erik to get a job that's going to give him more hours, because I sat him down and added up all his hours for each week (he gets his schedule for the entire month all at once, lucky him) and it added up to about 36 hours for the first 2-week pay period and 27 for the second. That's less than part time. That's practically 1/3 time. I work more than that, and I physically can't work full time. But if he gets a job working 40 hours a week then we may be able to actually pay our bills, and on time for once.

--dragon Read more!

Sunday, June 3, 2007

From Hell to Breakfast

A few months back while I was still enrolled in school, I had to write an essay for english. Now, I've always prided myself on my superior essay-writing abilities (yes, I know that was a terribly immodest comment) and I was particulary proud of this essay. Unfortunately, I never had the chance to turn it in because the week I finished it also ended up being the week I dropped out (more on that later). So in the hopes that this poor essay will actually see the light of day, I've decided to post it here thinking that at least one person might read it, and also in the hopes that if anyone ever reads it, they can learn a little bit about me. I'm going to post it in a few parts because it's rather long (about 4 pages) and that's a bit much to read in one sitting. Unless of course one is like me and reads through the entire archives of other peoples blogs in one afternoon.

(The Essay prompt included a paragraph from an essay we had read in class where the author compared herself to a "crumpled paper bag of miscellany", which is what the intro paragraph responds to.)
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From Hell To Breakfast

I am less a bag of crumpled paper than I am a cardboard box, bent at odd angles with the corners worn, the seams taped and re-taped over more moves than I can count on my two hands. It is box hastily packed in the twilight, stuffed with seemingly incongruous artifacts of an implausible existence. It is a scene played over and over in my life. The setting may change, but the act does not. Though the scene in itself is curious enough, the question arises as to what it is that may be found in the box. What is it that makes these items so important that they absolutely must be packed, as opposed to something more practical, more useful in a quick getaway such as this?

It’s not that there is anything very special to be found inside the box, but memories and dreams that are yet to be. A small wooden box filled with letters to a boy who forgot to become a man. Letters that span 6 years, every one I ever wrote. Drawings, photos, a scrap of napkin with half a poem. Notes passed in class and a journal kept for the 6 months he was far away. I cannot bear to part with these memories of my past. He was my first real friend. He was my first love. He was my first betrayal. And so I keep them. They remind me of so many things I have done, how I thought and talked. My art and first real attempts at serious writing. They don’t just represent a dear friend lost, they represent the entire person I was for over 6 years. It seems strange to say that a bunch of letters and other junk is me, but it is. It is a different me, but a me nonetheless. How many other people have a such a clear record of a defining period of their lives?

Another item in the jumble that stands out is a pair of ornate ebony chopsticks with mother of pearl inlaid dots at the top. Other than being a very fancy set of eating utensils, these embody my love of culture and hunger for things beyond myself. I love oriental things, especially Japanese, and these chopsticks remind me of what I love so much of a culture so foreign to me. I love the formality and tradition of Japan. I love the language, written it is art in itself, and spoken it falls melodically on my ears. In America we are sometimes lacking in the beauty of ritual and custom that many other cultures employ. In a merging together of so many different ideas, many are lost. I hope that I can create a little beauty and tradition in my own life, even if everything around me is a whirlwind of chaos.

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I'll post the rest of the essay tomorrow or the next day.

--dragon Read more!

Saturday, June 2, 2007

Scrying

When I think of the baby, I don't think of a tiny helpless infant. I think of a little boy with sandy hair and green eyes, maybe 2 or 3 years old. I've tried to imagine him as a baby, a new and wriggly little bundle to cuddle with and sing to when I'm kept up at crazy hours, but for some reason I just can't picture it. Instead I see myself chasing (no pun intended :P) him across the lawn, or him reaching up to me with hands covered in mashed potatoes and a sloppy grin. Perhaps it's easier for me to imagine a personality for a toddler than it is for a baby, but I've met plenty of babies, and even when they are very small they have some hints of their future personalities. Or perhaps it's more of a fear that I won't be able to hash it out as the parent of a newborn and the image of a walking, talking terror is my imagination showing me my percieved reward if I can only make it through the first 2 years. I'm not really sure.

Sometimes I think I must be crazy. I have a really hard time with long term commitments. I can do anything for 6 weeks at a time. After 6 weeks, I can usually convince myself to do it for another 6 weeks. But to push those 6 week blocks on for at least 18 years? Am I nuts? Everytime I have something good going for me, I self destruct. Am I going to be any different as a parent? Or am I going to throw my hands up in despair and walk away forever? Right now I don't feel any sense of attachment to the wee one. I read and hear other people saying how they loved their babies from the moment they knew they were pregnant, or how they talked and sang to their bellies for the whole 9 months. I know right around this time (26 weeks) babies can hear what's going on around them, but what do I talk about? What am I supposed to say? I feel as if I'm supposed to just know these things, but I don't. I keep hoping that as I get farther along these feelings will come naturally. I have a very hard time becoming emotionally attached to people. I try to remain very logical in my relationships with people, because I feel irrational and out of control when I become too emotionally involved with people. But with my very own child? Isn't just kind of wierd?

--Dragon Read more!