Stale champagne

30 05 2016

On the occasion that you find yourself in a mostly packed and emptied house with nearly all of your possessions sitting in a parked u-haul van while your (ex?)(current?)(significant other)boyfriend? (former[or current] Partner) is away working over time trying to finish up a project because his boss’s brother in-law just OD’d on heroin and died. And his boss’s debut solo show is happening in four days with at least a week’s worth of work to do and so said former or current boyfriend is going to work through the night to dutifully figure out how to mount/frame the photos of the aforementioned boss in the complicated way that even the incompetent yet some how talented boss doesn’t know how to do. ON this occasion, where not knowing the actual state of the three and a half year relationship, that you did not realize had meant as much to you as you thought. Or perhaps that good ol’ patriarchal Christian monogamy still some how haunts you more than you realize. It is on this occasion that drinking the stale champagne that was meant for celebration mimosas, which ended up being merely sad lonely mimosa that you didn’t even finish because you have shown a recent self harming impulse when drinking too much.

This occasion in which you find yourself, baby-sitting the beloved elderly dog of said former or current boyfriend in the mostly empty house surrounded by said former or current boyfriend’s things, because you both deeply love the elderly dog, and some how are still not quite ready to face what your life has become. Sure you finished graduated school, and yes that is awesome. But when you have a meager amount of sanity left, and the relationship that now you realize you are willing to work on is probably ending, but definitely feels like limbo. And you’re having to strongly consider going into some kind of intensive therapy program, oh and you’re broke, while so many around you seem to have their dreams being come true….

It is this occasion in which drinking that stale celebration champagne is acceptable. Check your bank account and order some fucking indian food for yourself and try to not be so fucking sad. Salty stale champagne is just too pathetic, even for you.

Where will I land after graduate school…McLean?

4 05 2016

Sooo, my therapist is worried about me again. Worried that I don’t have the support system that I need in order to do the things that I need to do to get better. I’m starting to feel like perhaps he is right.

He said that I might fall on the BPD spectrum. I feel like a failure. I feel like I will always be broken. That I am a terrible person. I know that isn’t what that diagnosis means, and that he wasn’t diagnosing me exactly. He said that he was trying to give me a heads up for when I checked out the McLean website.

I think I’m going to give up drinking. Well, I think I’ll start with giving up gin, vodka, rum, tequila, sweet red wine, and PBR. I’m going to limit myself to two drinks. Currently I am too depressed and stressed to drink. I get to a really dark place really quickly. And then apparently I do things like: send sexually charged texts to people other than my partner, and slash my arm. It’s already scarring over. And as far as the sexually charged texts….there’s a kind of mutual understanding that nothing will ever happen beyond that sort of thing, as we live super far apart, and other reasons.

Ugh… I wish I could take back so many things. I wish I could take back cutting my arm. Take back sending a photo of it to my best friend and thinking in my psychotic state that I had to share something beautiful with her. For thinking it was beautiful. For being honest with any fucking psychological professional ever.

I probably have C-PTSD not BPD, Borderline is such a grasp at straws of the mind.

I am tired of my bullshit getting in the way of my life. I wish I could figure out a way to at least make money off of it like the Bloggress. That is not shade. I think she is amazing. I have no idea how she has managed to stay in Texas. Seriously they have some seriously fucked up mental health practices down there. Or maybe that’s primarily Abilene.

I want to be better. I know I need patience with myself. But come on! I’m about to finish graduate school and I am barely hanging on.  Like I can get an MFA, but I can’t not sabotage my life? No. That’s bullshit. I’m sick of my own bullshit. I don’t stand for other people’s so why should I listen to my bullshit. I’m done with it.

No more. Starting right now I will do the things that I KNOW help me better myself. I will exercise more, dance, yoga, ride my bike, and swim. I WILL write every day even if it’s one fucking sentence. Every fucking day. I will draw every single day. I will paint every single day. I will cook for myself. I will clean myself daily. I will not be smelly. I will not over shop. I will not pick at my skin. (I just stopped myself when I realized I was doing it! That’s a new thing for me. Usually it takes at least 10 min or more of scoring my body before I notice.) And I will FUCKING kill it at THESIS.

Cuz if I don’t I may end up in a residential institution. I mean I guess I could pick up Yayoi Kusama’s torch. But Ii’d prefer to travel.



Why I’m cool with GRRM taking his time; today at least.

23 04 2016

I can’t kill myself until I read the last A Song of Ice and Fire books. That will probably give me another….20 years at least.

Doctors and PTSD

13 07 2015

I didn’t used to mind going to the doctor. As a kid I was sick quite a lot, and learned that doctors were going to be a big part of my life from a pretty early age. Being sick seemed like it was going to be a big part of my life, so I thought that I should just get used to it.  My mother was always hovering about when I was there, with that vexed look upon her face. Worried that her premature child would prematurely die. I was never safe in her eyes. But all in all I didn’t mind it. I did trust my doctors for the most part, until I was 12 and my left eardrum ruptured, (for reasons that are still disputed), but probably happened when I was concussed at a pool party. Or due to having an inner and outer ear infection around the same times. The good Doctor looked at me as the culprit though, me and my use of q-tips, even though I knew I had only gone in the outer canal, not nearly deep enough. Trusting myself, despite the shame he tried to put upon me for “doing it to myself” I started to harbor resentment for that doctor and I don’t think I ever saw him again. We then had to go to a specialist an ENT (Ear Nose and Throat) doctor who was an ancient man with glass that would make Mr. Magoo’s look slim. We would wait in an empty waiting room for hours, only to see this man for five minutes.

Those five minutes were the most painful thing I’ve ever encountered, and I’ve broken my arm before. He would put a vacuum down my ear, to clean it he said, each time. And I would see debris leaving my body out of the clear tube. It was the noise the vacuum made that was horrible. I had to dig my hands into the chair and grit my teeth, when I wanted to scream. Thinking about it still makes me cringe.  It was terrifying, horrible, and after it was over he would look through a magnifying lens and baffle at why my eardrum was not healed. After around a year of doing this charade over and over, and me at the age of 12 seeing the bill and it was well over a hundred dollars, (we were not rich by any means.) I demanded that we get a second opinion. That and a trip to Schlitterbahn, where I had to wear a swim cap, and my father had the brilliant idea of putting silly putty in my outer canal (which melted down into my ear in the hot Texas sun) and I ended up screaming about how I had a migraine and NEEDED to leave immediately and yelled at my father for making me put silly putty in my ear, even when I said it was a bad idea….right so we left, and soon after I saw that bill, and so we went to a different doctor. This doctor informed me that it was roughly 2/3 or 3/4 of my eardrum was missing. Livid, but justified I told him immediately that I refused to go back to that one ENT that he was horrible and should retire, and that he had to have known or was too blind to do his job properly. There was only one other ENT that came once a week to our town from another, slightly larger town, and we saw him the following Monday. He promptly looked in my ear and said that I needed surgery. That doctor and then the one I had later in college restored my trust a bit in doctors.

Then I was raped.

And then I moved to Boston. Socialized medicine is great. Except I haven’t been able to find a good general practitioner, yet. I think I might be one rude receptionist away from finding one that will do, for now. Going to the doctor for me, in part means telling them about abuse in my past. That is part of my medical history, because of PTSD. I also have to tell them about my concussions and ear surgery to be sure, but that doesn’t bother me. What bother’s me is being weighed. And having to tell them about that time I was forced into a mental institution for 10 days against my will, where I was put on all kinds of medication and learned that I was allergic to haldol.

But the worst is Planned Parenthood. The people there are very friendly, they are the best. I love the planned parenthood staff. But every time I’m there I end up crying. I cry because their little chart of sexual consent and power dynamics… I wish I had seen something like that in high school, and I cry thinking about how different my life could have turned out had I known that feeling guilty after being intimate with some one was never ideal, then maybe I could have had the courage to break up with the boy who became my abusive husband. I cry because I’m terrified that I’ve some how managed to have a weird delayed detection STI that the stranger rapist gave me, or that I contracted in my black out drunk days. I cry sometimes simply because they ask me if I feel safe in my relationships, and again, I wish some one had done that long ago…And sometimes I cry because I can’t help but feel uncomfortable when a speculum is in my vagina and swabs and thing are going crazy, and I can’t help but think about how the stranger hurt more. I wish I could feel safe there. I want to, but something about stirrups and paper blankets that will never make me feel easy.

Confession: I’m gross

8 07 2015

The persistent itch on my left foot is something that causes great debate within myself. To cure or not to cure? I would probably greatly appreciate a nice calming cortisol lotion on the patchy skin, but that would mean that I could no longer scratch till the foot is red and raw. That would mean the sting would leave and my fingernails would be clean. I would have to put away the razor blades that I use to pop the under the skin things I swear are causing the itching. That would mean that that clear liquid that I swear actually spreads the itch would never be release. That would mean no more scabs on the pads of my foot. That would mean soft pink skin that knows nothing but smoothness.

Dreams infect my sleep with far more grotesque than what my current foot condition is. The blisters all popped, blood and puss ooze, and then that scene from Lullaby begins to blend and I’ve begin to pull gangrened model house parts from the meat of my foot as if it were Mary Poppins’ carpet bag.

This dream moves me to get that good sweet lotion that promises to soothe cracked feet. And it does, for a little while, but then that itch, itch, itch, comes creeping back and starts the whole cycle all over again.

My fondness for razorblades is a fairly recent development in my beauty regiment. I find myself using a straight edge blade to do all sorts of things I probably shouldn’t, like pop pimples that don’t really need such force. But alas, this is probably my biggest gross weakness. Cleansing my pores. This year I met some one who had no visible pores on her nose and we were having this very intense conversation and suddenly I had to fight the urge to scream at her, “HOW DO YOU NOT HAVE ANY VISIBLE PORES???” I was both deeply fascinated, jealous, and felt sorry for her, for as I said one of my favorite hobbies is shrinking my pores and removing my blackheads by force. It has been since I was a budding teenager. Back then I was somewhat insecure of my large “man hands” I was told in fourth grade, by a friend, who didn’t realize that made me feel awfully uncomfortable. I wonder what happened to her she was so nice, we were running buddies and had a healthy competition for who could run the most laps.  Anyway, because of this insecurity I grew my fingernails out long. My nails were very strong and came in handy. I frequently had to use them as a weapon in Junior High, but too often I used them as a weapon on my face. I would take all my rage I was feeling out on my face. And end up coming to school with large scabs on my nose. Biore strips I probably did too many times, and they probably contributed more to the problem than the solution. My mother would yell at me to leave my face alone, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t be bothered it was such a rush to see how they would break or burst. Some of them would just suddenly jut out and it would be so surprising, because it was as if a small pellet had been lodged deep inside my skin. Others would erupt and sort of bloom with puss, and still others squirt some clear liquid, others would appear to just sprout hairs.

Now I know how to better clear my pores. Baking soda is my friend, I use it for nearly everything. Cleaning counters, my teeth when they need an extra kick, face, and body, even hair when I can’t remember the last time I showered. And as far as blackheads go, super short clipped fingernails are far superior than any half inch crazy nail. Short finger nails aren’t as quick to break the skin and draw blood, so less scabs. I still make myself look like Rudolph or that boulder hat wearing guy from Pop-Eye, but the swelling and redness go down far quicker than scabs take to heal. I also got one of those dermatologist tools that help you pop zits, but it’s not super good for black heads, it’s far better for the other more difficult zit.

I think it was way back when I was in the hospital and got put on all those different anti-psychotics and stuff that my skin started getting cystic acne. I didn’t really have a problem with that until after that lovely stay. I know it’s been years, but I swear it fucked my shit up that good. I know that my acne is still nothing compared to some, but it’s the worst it’s been in my life. Well it has been until recentlyI think I’ve finally found some things that really help, aside from Baking Soda, I mean. I use The Aztec Secret: Indian Healing Clay with Raw Apple Cider Vinegar, Tea Tree oil, Acure oil control facial moisturizer, Clean and Clear Salicylic Acid acne spot remover, and sometimes almond oil, or bio oil. I really want to try Philosophy’s lactic acid product line, but I mean… it was a struggle to purchase the Acure stuff and that was only $16. Well, maybe after grad school and you know I have like a job or some shit. But at least Baking Soda and Apple Cider Vinegar are cheap.

Speaking of Vinegar, ACV is my favorite shampoo/conditioner now. It makes my hair soft without being greasy and it seems to help with dandruff. But I have to be honest, showering is a struggle for me. I don’t know why. This is again, something I think I picked up from being in the hospital. But I think I might save that for another day.


15 10 2012



I got some weird news on Friday. It’s not really bad news, but just triggering. My best friend found an article about a French African native that was convicted of raping and stalking women from 2007-2010. The article had a photo. She had no idea that I was actually on my way out of work to head to my counselor, but I’m very glad that I was. As I rode over, I tried to remain as calm as possible, but my breathing was heavy, and I’m unsure how fast I was pedaling  and I know I did some maneuvers that weren’t that wise.  By the time I got down to meet my counselor I could barely breathe, let alone talk, but after taking off all my outer layers I was able to tell him what was going on.

I told him I had to know, that there was a photo in the article, and I needed to know. It was him.  I dropped my phone, and I knew it was him. I became 80% sure it was him. The stranger that raped me in June 2010. The one that I didn’t understand, the one where I started disassociating before it even was happening. As soon as he touched me, taking my hand, I started to fade, and become a shell.

I completely lost it for a few minutes. I felt as though it was happening all over only this time I knew what was going on and I didn’t see the mountain top. I didn’t know what to do but my therapist was able to remind me that I was safe, that it wasn’t happening now.  He was able to help me calm down, and call a friend to meet me after counseling.

He’s in prison. For twenty years. 19 now. But I’m not going to count that down. I’ve read several articles about the whole thing, and I’m now 90-95% sure that it is him. Nothing mentioned how tall he is. That’s the only detail that I feel like I need to really confirm it with myself. I know that there’s no tacking on to his sentence. But I recognize the shape of his mouth, the shape of his head, and he made this one face, when some one was talking during the world cup. The things that he said in the article, and the description of the actions. If its not him, there is a strong uncanny resemblance. I don’t know what this means for me. I don’t really know if this will bring closure really. My dad said that I should celebrate. But so far its just made everything present again.

To me this just tells me even more, that you don’t really get over being raped, you just learn how to carry it, and eventually the strength you gain makes it seem small and far away. One day I will be able to carry this again in such a way that it won’t be so painful.

“We must imagine Sisyphus, happy.”

I’ve contacted two reporters, the associated press, and the NYC DA office, I’m trying not to obsess, but I feel like if I know either way then I’ll be able to go on and bo back to not being a raw ptsd nerve.

I have work today so that will help. I wish I could listen to music in my head phones at work, I feel like I’m going to be hearing his voice all day with out that. I haven’t started with the nightmares or hallucinations, so I’m not going to worry too much.

I’m just going to listen to some angry/sad girl music, and I’ll be okay. I’ll probably watch Pride and Prejudice a million times, too.

She Means Well.

2 08 2012

Yesterday I was sitting down having my coffee in the new house. My mother sits across from me with her ipad up. And starts interrupting the Tom Waits interview that was almost over.  I have little memory of what it was that she said. Just that I paused the interview. Actually I have little memory of what was said in the interview, more that Heath Ledger must have watched it in preparation for playing the Joker. Which hey, that’s sweet, and then he gets to do his last movie with Tom which is even sweeter.

My mother sits across from me drinking her iced tea. She then starts talking about the chick-fil-a pres, and the horrible things that he said about homosexuality. By that I mean “God’s Judgement”  for bringing equality to people. Some people think that it will be a slippery slope (logical fallacy) to allowing polygamy to be legal. Which Honestly probably should be legal as well. If its legal there would be less likely that people would feel the need to start compounds and be all sketchy with the young ones, and  help prevent incest. Maybe. But I digress this is not the conversation that we had.

“Were you the one who told me that the Mayor of Boston refused to have chick-fil-a in boston until they changed their policy on same sex marriage?”

Maybe- probably not, I tend to avoid bringing up the subjects of sex, sexuality, religion, my past, marriage rights, politics, foreign affairs, when speaking with any member of my family. In fact I do my best to make sure that basically everything I post on my facebook is invisible to them.

Then she started saying something defending his right to say that, which he does have that right under the 1st amendment. And I recognize this, but every one who is upset, also has that right to express their unhappiness towards the situation. And the Mayor of Boston in my opinion is right to protest Chick-fil-a, Boston is a very PRIDEful city after all, and I’m proud to live in it.

I told my mom, before saying any of that, that we should probably stop talking about this subject, and she said okay. Then in the next breath says, “But…”

She pushed me… and the words came tumbling out. My mother is so wrapped up in Jesus and the Bible that those are basically the only words she knows. It may sound like she is talking about different things, but if you listen closely you’ll hear her alternate between Jesus, jesus, jesus, bible, bible, the bible, god god god god.

I started voice recording the conversation after she started talking about the devil ruling the world, being its “prince” She used quote fingers, not me. (though I do use quote fingers, shame, I know)

I started asking her questions just to understand what she believes. And she never definitively said that she didn’t think that homosexuality is natural. But she did say that our brains have been affected by sin, and that homosexuality was a sin. She said that she didn’t believe that each baby was stitched together in the womb, because, why then do we have blind babies, deaf babies, MR, and on and on. Good job mom, compare homosexuality to being deaf, blind, and an idiot- Oh and palsy. My mother’s solution to the existential crisis, and evil is: SIN! Its all because of sin, and that simplistic answer is good enough for her. Maybe that was mean to call my mother simplistic. Let me look it up real fast…. nope sounds just like my mother.

The conversation turned from homosexuality to biblical interpretation. Then it turned into me. I said something like, ” The kind of relationship you are describing having with god sounds awfully codependent and abusive.”

I shouldn’t have said that. I guess that was my tell. But she still misinterpreted it. “I’m sorry L, I’m sorry for what happened to you, I’m sorry you’re so angry with god, that you blame god, but God didn’t do those things to you. I’m sorry you didn’t listen when your father and I told you two to wait to get married.”

“I don’t blame God” (because I can’t blame a god I don’t believe in.) What I really wanted to say was, You need to leave, now, because for her to play the I told you so card… ohhh I do not know how I did not explode at her. I think that the POWER group must really have worked a lot, because that shit, is not cool.

Then she starts to cry and say that it doesn’t just stop at you. Your parents weep, I weep, your father weeps, God weeps. There was a tiny bit of tenderness towards her with her big brown eyes filled with tears. But then its hard to forget the words she said only minutes before.

Then she said, ” I wish you had pressed charges, I don’t understand why you didn’t press charges”

I told her I didn’t understand what had happened to me until much later. And she said well you still could have pressed charges. But there wouldn’t have been any evidence. But he would have a red flag, she says. And so would I. No, why would you? Because mother, there is no scientific evidence, there is nothing but his word against mine. (Also HELLLOOO that would bring him back into my life in a really unpleasant way, and the fucking family would get involved)

They blame the victim in most rape cases. They wouldn’t blame you… when have people blamed the victim? (My mother, so out of touch on some things) I list Kobe Bryant, ( Even if she wasn’t raped, he photo was released AND her number), That French diplomat and the Maid, that lets be honest, he probably did everything she said he did. And I don’t know how many more.

But what she didn’t realize. She had ALREADY blamed me. Not on purpose. But because being in the right is soo very important to both her and my father and I understand that living with my father, the expert can cause even the most zen person to crave a need to be right on SOMETHING but at what cost? That’s the thing my mother, nor my father understand. That being in the “right” isn’t always worth the cost. That’s why I haven’t brought up the fact, that by her saying, ” I’m sorry that you didn’t listen when…” is essentially saying, I told you soI foresaw this, this is what happens when you don’t listen to your parents.

The pain I have from those words, that’s the kind of pain I had, longing to tell my mother, just to talk to her ask for her advice, before things got so bad, that Christmas that she now claims, ” I could tell something was wrong, you were like a different person”

That October she had told me, ” You’re a woman now, and marriage isn’t easy”

I know she didn’t know.

I know she didn’t understand.

But then how can she say “I told you so!” ?