interlude: R.I.P., Tessa

Tessa M.
? − October 23, 2008

At my office we’re lucky to have a thriving dogs-in-the-workplace policy, and my department was home to one very special resident: a Cocker spaniel mix named Tessa. I was raised with dogs—I was in my early twenties before cats strutted into my life—and although I love my cats with every cell of my body and would walk through fire for them, there’s something about a dog’s love that just can’t be replicated. I miss it. Tessa graciously filled that void with a heady mix of gentleness and gusto.

On Thursday, October 23, Tessa passed away unexpectedly. She hadn’t been feeling well on Wednesday and was far more subdued than usual. As I rubbed her ears and wished her well, I had no idea it would be the last time I’d ever see her. Work just isn’t the same without her; suddenly there’s a Tessa-shaped hole in our department.

She was the best part of each workday; I was excited to arrive at the office just to see her. Sometimes I’d find her waiting at my department’s front doggy gate; other times I’d be settled in my cubicle before I’d hear the familiar jangling of her tags as she raced into my cube to greet me (and check out my garbage can for scraps, of course!). I would take breaks multiple times during the day just to rub her silky ears and scratch her back. I loved seeing her periodically saunter by my cubicle with her sassy little walk, always on the hunt for a vigorous petting, a treat, or a discarded morsel of food.

I adored that girl. When her parents went on a weeklong vacation over the summer, Tessa stayed at a doggy daycare boarding facility that had webcams, and I found myself checking the webcams at least twice a day, hoping to catch a glimpse of that little black and tan dervish. She was a spitfire, to be sure; she figured out how to open desk drawers with her teeth, to get to the treats buried within, and she managed to unlock the doggy gate on more than one occasion, streaking off into the bowels of the office with unbridled joy. She stole food from all of us at one point or another, but oh did we love her. We just couldn’t be angry with her, no matter what her doggy transgressions may have been.

What’s remarkable, given her energy and mischievous spark, is that Tessa wasn’t even a puppy—she was believed to be 10 years old. She was adopted this past January from a rescue group, Oldies But Goodies, specializing in the placement of older and elderly Cocker spaniels. She was only with us for 10 months, but during that time she made one hell of an impression. I liken it to the northern lights: a chance encounter, a wondrous blaze of luminous beauty that’s here and gone, never to be replicated in quite the same way again.

Her parents, Angela and Zack, deserve accolades for adopting an older dog. So many people are bewitched by the fuzzy bundle of undeniable adorableness that is a puppy—the idea of adopting an older dog, much less an elderly dog, never even crosses their minds. Hell, until Tessa came along, it never crossed my mind. Others are reluctant to undertake such an adoption because of increased veterinary care expenses and a heightened fear of impending loss. There’s this idea of “Oh, I don’t want to adopt a dog only to have him die on me a few months later!” What they fail to recognize is life’s lack of guarantees. Through accident or unexpected illness, a puppy can die just as easily as an older dog. Sadly, nothing is ever certain.

There’s an AIDS memorial inscription in my quotations collection: To love something you know will die is holy. Whenever we willfully choose to assume the responsibility of loving someone, we do so with the knowledge that we could lose that person or animal. It’s not something most people choose to dwell on, although those of us with morose inclinations often keep this knowledge alive in our periphery. The truth is that a thread of mortality constantly runs through the fabric of life, and whether we ignore it or not, it’s still there. But it blends in so seamlessly, it’s almost imperceptible—except in situations where death, illness, or serious accidents cause it to flare into everyone’s line of sight.

Those who choose to bring an older animal into their hearts are at once beautiful and brave because they openly acknowledge this mortality and refuse to let it intimidate them. I’m not religious in the least, but I love that aforementioned inscription’s use of the word holy to describe the act of loving someone even in the face of impending loss.

In taking a chance on her, Tessa’s parents gave her what were undoubtedly the best 10 months of her life. The happenings of her first decade remain a mystery, but given the fact that she was a stray and two bullets were found inside of her, we can only assume those years were far from ideal. But then, in the home stretch, she found a loving family with all its accompanying pleasures: toys, treats, kisses, walks, adoration, safety. The next time I adopt an animal, you can be sure I’ll follow Angela and Zack's lead and choose one who is older—one who needs a second chance like the one given to Tessa.

Angela created a lovely memorial slideshow for Tessa; you can view it here.

Rest in peace, Tessa!



song heard most recently before posting:
The Drop—Peter Gabriel

25 years: a retrospective (part 5)

6 September 1983

Fluffy’s Birthday was GREAT! We had streamer letters and everything! Tomorrow’s school! I’m kinda anxious and scared. I’m really gonna have butterflies! But we go at 10 I think and leave at 2. The school lunches are 90¢ this year! A lot. Soon it will be a million dollars.

31 December 1983

Well, tomorrow’s Jan. I just want to say, thank you and I love you very much. Since you helped me through problems. I really want to thank you. Even though I didn’t write in you every day I still love you. You were my best friend in my whole life. When I had a problem I could only tell it to you. Even though I got another diary it won’t be the same. I’ll really miss you. Good bye! Happy new year!

31 December, last day of 1985

Tonight Nanny and Papa come over and we have to go to church. Today Andrea called and she was crying because a friend, Michelle (Kris knew her too) died today. See, her mother fell asleep with a cigarette and the house burned down killing her and her mother. It’s sad. Well, tomorrow is 1986 and then the day after we go back to school. Yuck! I plan to take lots of pictures tonight and tomorrow. Sunday was fun and Heather went too. We went to see SPIES LIKE US. I can’t wait till tonight! I made lots of noisemakers. Well, I better go now. I’m having a spasm in my hand. Happy New Year!

31 December 1989

This officially is my last entry of the decade. It seems scary in an overwhelming sense, because what remains? I’m almost sorry I didn’t pay more attention to the eighties. Suddenly they’ve slipped by, leaving me with a cold, unfamiliar stretch of ten years to endure. Will they be great? Will they be the beginning of the end? Just think…next time I exit a decade I’ll be twenty-five years old! Maybe I’ll be married and have kids. What lies ahead? It’s hard to fuse the line between beginnings and endings. In one second the transition from the end of December in the end of the 80s goes to the beginning of January in the beginning of the 90s.

Stop my speculating! Wow, do I have gas. Sorry. I conclude my darling eighties as I conclude every other year…with my family, and lots of pensive thought on what lies ahead, though I know time will fly and soon I’ll be reading over my worries and predictions in you.

God bless you … and me, in the 1990s yet to come. I love you.

16 January 1997

I need to do something creative and fulfilling soon. I really need to get off my ass this weekend and, say, take black & white pictures or begin the mosaic project that I want to make for Terry, Heather, and Annida. When I’m at work, I get all these inspiring ideas to do everything from creative projects to just cleaning my room, organizing my things, etc. I never do any of it. The second I get home, I’m tired and apathetic and lazy. I change into comfortable clothes, eat dinner, and watch TV until it’s time to go to bed. Sometimes I do a little reading. It has been getting worse lately. And now my mind is getting as lethargic and mired in mud as my body and my personality. I can’t think. I can’t concentrate or remember anything. I keep making the stupidest, most embarrassing mistakes [at work], because everything goes in one ear and out the other, with no traces remaining. I feel like I am in a constant daze or mental fog. First my body seemed to die, and I became more listless than usual. Then my creativity began to die. I can’t write anymore, or think up cool projects, or anything else like that. In other words, my voice died. Now my mental prowess is dying. I am not myself anymore…

14 March 2000

I realize that it isn’t because I long for F.—he isn’t who I’m pining for, even though it was his body I embraced in my dream and his face I kissed so passionately. He was just a mask worn over an idea, and the mask was his because he’s the one I’ve been interested in lately. But it is the idea that I am truly in love with, the idea that I long to obtain. The idea is my old, desperate longing for The One. Whether he could be considered my soulmate or not, he is the one I am meant to spend my life with. I am such a fucking romantic…I just think that love and romance and sex and relationships are divine primal unions…the closest thing to god I will ever be able to touch. … At my core, I have the utmost respect for those aforementioned things. I don’t take them lightly at all. They are gifts to be treasured and all I really want out of this life is to have a chance to celebrate them with The One, whoever he may be. F. is just the latest face I have stapled onto the intangible man of my dreams. When I feel such intense sadness at my attempts to let F. go, it isn’t him I’m sad to lose—it’s the light that flutters in my heart whenever I begin to resurrect those old dreams of finding and obtaining The One. When I let my numb heart defrost a little bit and let a new crush in, I am swamped with such wondrous, positive emotions, and of course I hesitate to let them go when it’s time to let go of the futile crush.

Oh god, my appetite for this mysterious One is almost palpable. I breathe it, I sweat it. I want nothing more than to just hold him…not even kissing him or making love with him, but just holding him. I can’t stop thinking about how warm and secure his arms will feel around me, how perfectly we will make our bodies fit into one another when we curl up in bed together. Even though I can’t smell, I think of burying my face in his skin and breathing in his warm, moist, salt-scent. I think of him loving me and accepting me completely, and not seeing all of the flaws I see in myself. Yet he wouldn’t put me on a pedestal and think of me as being infallible, because that pressure would be too much for me to bear, and it would minimize my dark attributes which I readily accept. I think of how being him won’t just be safe and secure and comforting, but how it will carry tremendous, thunderous energy, too…When we are together, the molecules around us will jar and dance and vibrate with our electricity. What I am seeking is magic, in all its subtle and not-so-subtle forms. A love so intense that I want to cry when I am not with him; yet I will not be absorbed into him, unable to function on my own. I guess what I’m seeking is an unobtainable miracle that I just can’t absolve…

11 August 2004

It’s really the longing that bothers me most of all. I don’t want to long for anybody. I want to be the pumpkin whose inner flesh and seeds are scooped out, leaving a smooth, hallow, lovely shell. I was doing so well in my quest for asexual numbness, but then I began periodically tripping over curbs of desire, falling to my knees and scraping them open. These are no smooth, hallow, lovely scrapes—they are messy, damp, raw. They sting. They take ages to heal. And even after they heal, there are scars left behind. I don’t want to long for anybody. I want my heart to belong to me alone (well…along with my family, friends, and cats, of course!). There’s not enough room in it for a mysterious Him. There’s not enough room for both of us. One of us must be blotted out, and I don’t want it to be me.

I slide back into my pessimistic view that romantic love in its purest form is nearly scientifically impossible in the end. How are we really expected to find good matches in a world this big? Sure, you can register with match.com, but what if your best matches are only registered on other personal ad sites, or aren’t registered anywhere at all? Or what if they are placing ads in San Francisco or Toronto newspapers, which you’ll never see? What if your best matches live far away? How am I supposed to meet a Perfect Match if he lives in fucking North Dakota? And what is a Perfect Match, anyway? What are the odds I’ll find a guy who is attractive to me physically and possesses all the emotional and mental traits I seek? And what are the odds that this guy would feel the same way about me? If he exists, and I somehow find him, what if he happens to be married? Or gay? Or in prison? Or a drug addict? What if he just doesn’t see me as his perfect mate? What if he’s totally perfect except for the teensy-weensy problem of abusiveness? What if we’re sexually incompatible? Or what if he’s perfect but he’s got a terminal disease? The list is endless. And so bear little hope that I will ever find a good match for me. Plus I don’t want to risk potential heartbreak. I could meet someone and fall in love, only to have him dump me three years down the line. Most people can deal with the heartbreak and move on to someone new, but I dwell on things and obsess to the point of having my head explode. It is extremely difficult for me to let things go. And men aren’t exactly lining up around the block to date me, so if I manage to luck into a good relationship and it fails, odds are, that is my last chance—or at least my last chance when I’m young. If it takes me over 30 years to find one guy, it’s safe to assume that it’d take me another 30 years to find a second guy. Or maybe it would take longer.

17 June 1985

Ma spilled a drawer of Kris’ earrings and I helped her clean them up before Kris found out and then she goes to me “stop your complaining.” Humff! That’s not fair and then she tells Kris. Geez, I know I’m just an afterthought after Kris was born. On Saturday Kelly and Scott slept over, we saw the GOONIES. Data and Mouth were (from the movie) SO cute.

21 June 1989

If only I was prettier. I have this horrible rash on my legs, so I’m running around in pants since I’m so ashamed. My face is all out of shape, and I must radiate coldness, or something. Cold and ugly, and no one likes me. God, what do you do when life hurts so much? I couldn’t kill myself, couldn’t go mad…sometimes I just don’t know what to do.

1 April 1994

Darkness continues to sizzle over me again, like the sizzling coffee that is brewing beside me. It is interrupted by momentary flashes of light; just enough to make the black more agonizing when it strikes. I am tired. I woke up at 8:15 this morning, even though I only got to bed after 2 a.m. I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired of the sleeplessness, the stomach pains, the numb spots on my head, the crying spells, the feeling that everyone hates me so very much. I feel like: “Circles and circles and circles again, the girl’s in circles and circles—got to stop spinning…” I feel like I’m spinning around in rough, rapid circles in the middle of a field, like I did when I was little. I turn faster and faster…and I grow dizzy, nauseous, exhausted, disoriented. This is the part where I’m supposed to collapse to the ground and relax as the rest of the world continues to swirl sickly above me. But I can’t stop. I can’t stop spinning and I must stop…

10 May 1996

England. Here’s the part where I go off on a selfish tangent, as if Nanny is only worthy of a paragraph prelude to my life and problems. I love her. I will never stop loving her with the force I felt on the day she died. Perhaps that’s the only thing that matters—how fiercely and deeply I anchor her inside of me, not how many times I dutifully visit her grave. Or perhaps I’m just rationalizing my shittiness again. I seem to be quite good at doing that. Anyway, my head tells me that it’s probably not a good idea to go to England. The intense financial strain, social strains, and legal strains may make it more trouble than it’s worth. I could be walking from one friendship frying pan into another, since a lot of my London pals have been somewhat distant or absent lately. My heart, however, tells me that it is the right thing to do. It has been pulling me mercilessly along towards England since I was fourteen. It has to be more to it than the fact that London is a brilliant city that I love. There has to be some reason why moving there feels like my destiny. Nothing really happened during my year abroad to satiate the curiosity I feel towards this puzzling need to live there. In fact, I spent a good portion of my time there mildly homesick, and eagerly looking forward to returning home. Maybe a great success will befall me once I’m there, like how Tori Amos only got successful once she moved to England. Maybe it will only be a calm, simple peacefulness—I’ll get my dream job, live in my dream house, get more wonderful friends, and just generally find a happiness that may’ve eluded me if I had stayed in the States, for whatever reason.

19 May 1999

Here I am, sitting in the Gate 54 waiting area at Newark Airport, listening to my Funeral Mix and trying to ignore the icy rivulets of fear trickling inside my stomach like drippings down a slimy sewer wall. My favorite song, “Gloomy Winter,” is playing. I just caught a glimpse of some girl who looks like Annida out of the corner of my eye. The landscape beyond the window in front of me is half-dead, a listless blue gray. The runway is still wet from the showers we encountered while driving here.

Two and a half years later, I have finally, finally reached this point. Had somebody told me on that dark October day in 1996 that it would take me two years and seven months to return to England, I would have curled up in a corner and died.

I was surprisingly okay until I walked into the airport. Then a dim, all-encompassing fear filled me, although I surely appear outwardly calm. I thought by now I’d be a hysterical, diarrhea-splattered mess. I can feel that large Frosty that Dad bought me en route churning in my stomach, though.

I am so afraid. I think that even if I knew that they will definitely let me into the country, I would still be afraid. What if my money doesn’t last? What if the conference is horrible? What if Annida and I don’t get along? Oh god, my feet are numb and my hands are clammy.

20 May 1999

I’m in! I’m in! I’m in! I’m in! I’m in! I’m in!!!!!

Now all I have to do is stop SHAKING!!!!

24 November 1990

Mum says Bush now forbids anyone in the army from leaving, even if their time is up. And everyone is getting drafted right and left. She said that’s a sure sign of war, this containing of troops. The president is all set for war.

I never lived during a war. At first I thought it was an exciting, if not grotesque, prospect, but now it’s scary. They have nuclear weapons, don’t they? And they’re being controlled by a madman. I know one person over there—Todd S. I wonder how it would change here, besides having a horrific gasoline ration. Suppose we all die. Oh God.

Last year at this time the world seemed to be catapulted into perfection. The Berlin Wall was down. Ceausescu was killed. Czechoslovakia, Bulgaria, and Poland were free. In Central America, terrible leaders were being thrown out. Even Russia is barely Communistic anymore. Now this. Thatcher is out of parliament in England, too; whether that’s good or bad, I don’t know. Damn the Middle East. I’m 16! I don’t want to get bombed.

14 January 1991

…so I lay in bed crying. We tremble over the basin of history, of anticipation, of war. I never thought it would come to this, whatever this is. Yes, the 15th is upon us, and no one knows what eachother is doing. I just heard on the radio speeches (excerpts) from Bush, Hussein, and Congress set to “From a Distance.” It was so sad. I’m so afraid. I don’t know what to think; I’m against war, of course, but there’s so much I don’t know about what’s going on, I’m kind of neutral. God save us from ourselves.

Yes, from a distance God is watching us…and shaking his head in sorrow at what he sees.

Can write no more.

15 January 1991 (10:58pm)

One hour until war.

“All we are saying is give peace a chance…”

16 January 1991

Oh God oh God oh God

There’s no way I can tell you how I feel now, how unreal this is. I am incapable of describing it.

We are at war. War.

At about 7 pm they started pulling tanks up to Iraq, and bombers. I heard it on the radio on my way to Boscovs. It was coming, and there’s no way to stop it. A few minutes later, on my way home, as I drove slowly through the thick fog, the DJ on WINK 104 said suddenly, “We are now officially at war.” I was so shaken. Missy and I talked on the phone about it for awhile, then since then I’ve been watching the news on all the TV stations. Bush’s address was on at 9. I even noticed on Channel 17, which was carrying a basketball game, that they calmly ran the words, “The United States is now at war with Iraq.” And they went on with the game. How can those crowds cheer when they know? This isn’t real, it can’t be. Where is the massive black cloud, stifling and filled with thunder, which is supposed to descend with war? Will life go one? I’ll get up at 7, go to school, dance at musical…and we’ll be at war.

I am now watching MTV. Even on MTV, the filth of our government exists. Kurt Loder is broadcasting from a huge protest in Times Square. Every video has to do with peace, especially the re-release of “Give Peace a Chance.” On MTV: The End of the Innocence, Pray, Give Peace a Chance, A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall, Something to Believe In, Let Love Rule.

This scares me … more than you would ever believe. They have nuclear bombs. They have terrorists in our country now (what happens if they get a hold of TMI?). They have a leader who is determined to bring us, and his own country, down with his fall. Those nuclear bombs scare me so much I have nightmares. And we, as a nation, are bound in this together. I think of [how] even the stars in California, who exist in perfect TV worlds, are a part of this war. The government…the rich…the poor…me.

Missy’s cousin and Jenn’s uncle are both in the aerial war going on now (but the news says Iraq gives little resistance in that war) and I’m afraid of their dying.

I feel guilty at times. I feel guilty because parts of me want the excitement and horror of war to grow, and last, but then my conscience catches up and says “You are mad. What if you are nuclear bombed? This could be the end.” So I start shaking like a cold, wet leaf, and wait in fear of this.

3 September 1988

I think that if I have to hear one more fucking lecture out of my fucking mother, I’m going to fucking die. She always does it to me. Always! This time it was because she thinks I’m wasting my money on a Lost Boys tape. What else am I supposed to do with the money? Why I want the tape I can’t explain. I have to wait till this Friday to get it, though. Once again I have this “dead” feeling around me. It’s like a heavy weight that makes me feel like I have to cry. I won’t though. I won’t give them the satisfaction.

16 September 1989

I’m not sure I can honestly say I feel at least a little better. It scares me sometimes, how nothing can ever penetrate the somber cloud above my head. Look at me, I’m fifteen years old, young, alive, semi-healthy, and I hate life! I loathe it! Now, can you tell me that’s normal? Oh, I don’t know what I’m going to do about anything. I’m so afraid of everything, so afraid of living. It’s strange…sometimes I’ll be doing something, and suddenly just want to die. Let God give me cancer, or kill me. I don’t care. Oh please! Pull me away from this.

… Why am I torturing myself so? I mean, what is really wrong with me? I want to see a psychiatrist, but I’m so goddamn protective of my feelings and emotions, I’m afraid it would never work. I wish someone would tell me why I’m on one side of the mirror, and can’t break through.

20 November 1992

I can feel that it’s back again, crawling on my soul like a cancerous shadow. I can’t explain it—it’s just a stinking blackness that’s bleeding me dry. Oh, blood. Oh good Christ. Blood. Like a drug, I need to slash my wrist very badly right now. I need to feel that power, to feel as if I have some degree of control over my twisted life, my twisted thoughts.

28 August 1993

… we had the first annual stalking awards. There were three ties, but I still majorly cleaned up. I won 7 ribbons, after barely voting for myself! I guess that you could say that I’m the Queen o’ Stalking. We all (Gatesy, Heller, Foster, Laura, Terry, Shawn, Missy, and I) went to Yummy’s Chinese Restaurant in Palmyra for a very long period of time, to eat huge amounts of food and be very loud and obnoxious. I had to take almost my entire plate of “Buddha Supreme” along in the car with me, since it was only served to me about ten minutes before we left. Then I got the idea to leave it, uncovered, on Gatesy’s neighbor’s doorstep. Someone else suggested that it be left on Ben’s instead. So, Laura, Terry, Shawn, Missy, and I went to the adult bookstore along Rt. 422, and we three chicks went in, sort of embarrassed, and shamefacedly bought a cheap plastic dildo, which we stuck up out of my gooey Chinese food, leaving it on Ben and Psycho Jackie’s doorstep. Laura and I were the ones who crept stealthily through the dark and left it in there, giggling madly. Terry invited us to go swimming quietly in his neighbors’ pool, which they let him use anytime he wants. It was a beautiful night—clear, warm, with a visible moon. The pool water was just right. We were reveling in the fact that we were finally nightswimming, and in the spirit of the moment, with modesty cast alongside the pool with our clothing and bathing suits, we went skinnydipping. [We were] swirling about naked in a pool, exhilarated and wondering what would happen if Terry’s neighbors discovered five naked teenagers (four of them total strangers) swimming about in their pool at 2 a.m. … I never felt more alive in my life then I did at that very time. Alive and free. Unchained. Wicked.

6 December 2004

We were there for around three hours and the waiters and other patrons were probably so glad to see us leave. We were loud and kept screaming with laughter and we said our usual round of inappropriate things. At one point Charlie mentioned his boyfriend, and then he got this panicked look on his face, as if he expected someone to kill him on the spot for being gay. We laughed at the idea of someone whipping out a gun and shooting him in the head three seconds after he said the word “boyfriend.” So during the rest of dinner, Missy and I would periodically yell “Bang!” at Charlie and he’d slump over in his chair. And, being the dorks that we are, we all decided to trade driver’s licenses so we could laugh at one another’s photos. Charlie was like, “Ready, set, pass to your left!” I laughed so hard at Boot’s license photo, I literally couldn’t breathe. I was in pain. Bob’s photo makes it look like he’s got hydroencephalitis and is standing in front of a funhouse mirror. Danielle’s photo has the Crazy Eyes. Charlie roared with laughter when he saw that Missy’s license claims she only weighs 200 pounds. She fired back, “Well, your license says that you’re male!” and I shrieked “BURN!!!!” at him.

Ha, and at one point, Charlie asked me how old I thought Gates's fiance was, and I said, “I dunno…30?” and everyone laughed because he’s only 23. Whoops!

Oh, and I’ve gotten Missy completely obsessed with the idea of going on The Amazing Race with Charlie. So we spent a good part of dinner discussing our future audition tapes and how we’d act on TAR. Missy and Charlie are obsessed with being called “America’s Sweethearts” and having all of America fall in love with them, based on their TAR performance. Danielle and Tony are going to be another team, and Bootsy and I are going to be a third team. Missy said the tagline beneath us will say “vegan and fister.” “Hey, I’m not a vegan!” I cried. Naturally Boot didn’t follow it up with “And I’m not a fister!”…because, well, he is.

2 February 1994

The most fucked up thing ever just happened to me. I was crossing Linden St. between J-Hall and Hyland Hall to come to this class, and I had to walk through two grimy men. One stopped me and refused to let me proceed, because he was entranced by my nose ring. He asked me why I have it and his eyes rolled in different directions. He was very hard to understand. He told me secretively that he had his balls pierced. I tried to act nice and calm by saying “Oh really?” and asking him if it hurt, etc. He said “no” but that it stung a bit. I said that mine didn’t hurt either. I thought he asked me if I screamed, but he must’ve actually asked me if I creamed. I said “no.” He goes “You didn’t cream?” and grabbed me again as I tried to walk away. He asked me how many kids I had and I exclaimed “None! I have to go!” He put his arm around me and pulled me in tight and asked me if I wanted to start having them right then and there with him. I thought “Oh my god, he’s going to rape me,” even though there were students milling around. I said “No!” and broke away to class.

14 September 1995

Anyway, in the bathroom … I sobbed my eyes out and hyperventilated for a good half hour. I tried to retch into the toilet, I pinched my arm repeatedly [to try to] wake myself up, and I rolled around fetally on the floor. It really was like some nightmare. I felt utterly alone. I literally could not stop crying, and it really frightened me.

14 January 1986

I’ve got shocking news. Ma got a job! I’ll die. She will be home when I get home, and only work 4 days a week and I might get a increase in allowance but here are bad things:

we won’t go to Hershey Park
I’ll be all alone every day
I’ll have to vacuum and dust my room
we won’t go to Park City
we won’t go to pool
works summer
there’s no way now to go on vacation

or, if Fluffy dies I’ll really be all alone forever. I’ll never speak to Ma again!!!

18 February 1987

I’m starting to get irritated at Wendy. She’s always borrowing pens and pencils and never returning them. She also says that we’re best friends in school but as soon as we’re near other friends she practically ignores me. I have to run errands for her too, sometimes. I wish I’d be pretty and popular and never have to worry about these problems.



song heard most recently before posting:
Yes—Coldplay

25 years: a retrospective (part 4)

26 May 1983

My hair looks like a boy hair cut! Mommy curl ironed it a little though. It still looks like a boy hair cut. My birthday’s soon here!! I’m getting an ODIE DOLL!!!!!!!!

8 November 1984

I hate Ma! She’s making me go get a haircut in 15 minutes. At that dumb beauty salon. I’m really crying because I don’t wanna go. She says she’ll pay me a dollar and she wants the nicest lady to work on me. She treats me like a baby. I’ll have to not speak to her. I bumped my head on the bars. It hurts my head, stomach, all hurt.

4 June 1985

Tomorrow is the last day of school. Amy T. is my BEST friend. I brought in cupcakes today. Everyone sang to me. It’s my birthday! I have the BEST class: everyone was signing autograph books. I got everyone’s name but 6 people. I’ll get them tomorrow. I got Manny’s and Matt’s. Oh boy! I got a Care Bear! from Maggie. Cheer Bear. He’s cute. Amy gave me an Anastasia book as another present. At exactly 9:10 PM tonight I’ll be 11!

Oh boy!

30 March 1986

Today is Easter and was fun. First, I got a good Easter basket and in it was a J pin. Then we went to the Pancake House to eat breakfast. I had eggs, cereal, etc. Kris and I fought when we went home but then I rode my bike and when I got back, the whole family went on a bike ride. Kris and I exchanged bikes then Daddy tried to fix hers because it’s broken. While he did that we wrote all over the house in chalk. Then we went to Nanny’s and ate a delicious meal and I watched MTV. Since it was hot out, I went outside barefoot many times, it felt good on my toes, and found a golf ball! Kris and I toured the houses across the street and found a huge dirt and stone mountain, climbed it, and found a poorer housing development. That was neat too.

11 March 1987

Today D. acted cold towards me. She said stuff like I’m a copycat, and I’m stupid and that she wasn’t getting a Hershey pass anymore. I don’t know if that’s true or not. I hope she changes her mind. Punky said that she thought D. and Angie were best friends. That’s probably true. I mean, if we were best friends, she’d write me notes, act NICE, call me, say “hi” in the halls, and sit with me at lunch. None of those things happen. I’m so confused about friends and all. I wish I were REAL popular. That’s why I’m not sure if I’ll have a birthday party. Because I have hardly any friends. It’s just not fair! I also wish that I’d find a new best friend. That would show her I’m no loser.

27 May 1988

God, I am mad. Kris just said that I looked like I’m doing coke just because I’m tired and my nose is red. Well let me tell you—I am NOT. I’m tired because of Olympic Day and gym class today. My nose is red because it got sunburned yesterday. I told her this, but I don’t think she believed me. That’s the second person who thinks I’m using drugs. Mom told me a few days ago at Nanny’s that she thought I was on drugs in the past. Now I see why people who are accused get so mad at school. Don’t they know I would never use drugs? It’s true! In my book (and please don’t think I sound like a commercial) drugs are stupid. The only reason I act(ed) the way I do because I was, and still am, going through a hard period in my life. And I wouldn’t classify it as DRUGS, but ADOLESCENCE.

4 June 1989

Today’s my birthday, but it doesn’t feel like it, and I’m not yet fifteen. Everyone’s at Baccalaureate. I’m supposed to be studying for my A.M. final; however, I left my book in my locker and the school doors are locked, so I can’t. Antoinette said you need to use common sense for it. Nan and Papa are coming over for cake tonight, which looks brilliant with its British flag on it. … I was reading back over last year’s diary, with my hang ups and struggles. How I’ve changed! What will I be like a year from now? So much has happened…yet so little remains. Yesterday existed, today is here, and tomorrow is an illusion, an image, a dream. In a flick of a moment it could all change, and that’s what frightens me.

4 June 1990

One year later, it’s my birthday. In four minutes (no, make that three) I’ll be 16. I’m writing to you because one year ago I wrote about my feelings of the times, and wondered where I’d be in one year. Well, here I am, a true survivor.

It’s 9:10. I’m 16. Oh God, is that old. Now I closed my eyes and it’s 9:11. It’s official. I’m 16.

One year ago, I closed my eyes to my parents’ rage, praying for hope, and now they’re divorced. I speculated on my freshman year, now I’m reaching towards my junior. Life works in funny ways. I wonder where I’ll be one year from now, when I’m almost a senior.

19 April 1991

I wanted to kill them all this afternoon. I wanted to scream and kill and run, but I don’t think I have enough strength to do that, do I? I don’t have enough strength to do much of anything, except maybe lie down and die. I’m too much of a wimp to do even that. They’re probably all downstairs talking about me now. Oh God. Oh God! Oh God! Why must it be like this? Why must I bleed inside as I do? It’s always there…this monster of utter and pure and religious darkness…

10 May 1992

Have we drifted apart because we have nothing in common anymore? Did we ever? Maybe I’m a little too weird and off-the-wall for them. Maybe I threaten the safety of their comfortable little world. Maybe I’m just a fucking nut who is mega-crazy for thinking that anyone could possibly want to spend any time with me. Of course that’s got to be it. Others see the insanity in me that I only suspect exists. They’ve known longer than me that I’m a useless, hopeless, revolting, pathetic little shit who’s unfortunately stuck on the bottom of their shoes. They keep trying to wipe me off on the pavement, but I just won’t go. If I did go, would they notice? Would they mind? Would they keep on walking or stop to laugh at me smeared on the ground? Sometimes, when I think of dying, it’s a beautiful thought. The word “suicide” is entwined with flowers and happiness and light. I don’t want to live to be 18. I don’t want to work this summer, or go on senior week, or go off to college, or grow up to be stuck in some shit-town, working at a menial job and paying off college loans for the rest of my life. I only want to curl up and die in secrecy…to go away for awhile. To never have to dream this sour dream of life again. Its odor is choking me. I’d rather die by my own hand than by life’s, especially when I continuously feel as if I’m losing my mind. My brain has huge holes in it, I’m constantly plagued by anxiety, I can’t even bloody spell anymore! … Am I supposed to scavenge up the tattered shreds of my life and build something with it? Or am I supposed to throw them in the ocean and cover myself with the wet sand of darkness, betrayal, lies, and hatred, until I’m totally buried, and no one can see me anymore? I wish God, if there is one, would let me know. Why the hell does s(he) keep me hanging on like this—lonely, confused, afraid. I’ve never been in an accident, I’m never sick, I’ve never even broken a bone, for Christ’s sake!

“How does it feel to never be allowed to die…?”

22 June 1993

While I was writing to you, I began to inexplicably cry. Sort of ashamed, I headed for the attic with my box of pills and razor blades. Once there, I bawled my eyes out, mumbling to myself about how I’m so sick of holding everything in. I grabbed a razor blade and made one deep (borderline vein) slash in my right wrist, which gushed endless blood. Kristen called me to dinner, and frantically I mopped up the blood and dried my tears; a bunch of Kleenex, a maxi pad, and an ace bandage covered the wound.

I am I am I am

15 December 1994

Oh god, everything’s falling apart. I’m falling apart, but that’s nothing new. I’m beginning to cry again now. Things like these inevitably lead to my lashing out at myself in self-beratement. I think that I’ll never do anything with my life, and that I’ll have to kill myself before graduation, anyway, so I may as well do it now. You can’t know how badly I need to slit my wrists as I sit here writing this.

11 September 1995

By the way…on Friday night, he and I went to Farley’s for drinks. We got hassled by three drunk townies, and afterwards we tried to steal a parking meter that lay felled in the middle of the street. We were unsuccessful, as it was quite heavy. We couldn’t even get any money out of it. So, we went to the library to do e-mail, which was kind of fun in its patheticness. After all, it was like 1 a.m. and we were in the library on a Friday night, being cybergeeks like the other losers there.

19 February 1996

Anyway…spending so much time reading about gothic things and vampires this weekend got me thinking about being gothic. On the outside, I don’t look very goth, and other goths might look down on me for that, claiming I’m not “real.” However, I feel that I’m more goth than goth poseurs who dress like it, listen to all the goth bands, etc., but do it all for image purposes. I’m just as goth as people who look and act like it, and genuinely believe in it. I once looked pretty goth…I had the dyed-black hair, the constant pale face and blood-red lips, and wore almost all black. The pale face remains, and sometimes I have the red lips and black clothes, too. It doesn’t matter how I look, though; what matters is how I feel. The true state of gothic isn’t what bands you listen to, or how bizarre you can make yourself look, but how attracted you are to the dark side. And the dark side covers a wide range of genres. I’ve been into many dark things for years…depression, insanity, suicide, death, cemeteries, horror…shallower things like the colour black, dark poems and photos and winter, and more serious things, like a fascination for the occult, Satanism (a studious interest! That’s it!) paganism and witchcraft, and the paranormal…dark, wicked sense of humour…and above all, a burning interest in the dark side of regular life. Every person and every place has a dark side. Shadows lurk under the brightest, most plastically perfect façades of people and suburbia. That’s a powerfully intriguing thing, and I think that’s what makes me gothic. I examine the dark side of everything, of myself. And if, along the way, I maintain an interst in gothic literature, The Cure, Highgate Cemetery, Elizabeth Bathory, and vampires, and I own a black velvet cape and black lipstick, then all the better. Carpe noctum, baby…

10 June 1997

When I was at one tourist mecca (which invites you to join in “The Amish Experience” in a top-of-the-line multimedia theater and laser show, even though the Amish don’t even believe in electricity or cars for chrissake—what a contradiction!), I saw a large group of elementary school students having lunch on what was obviously their class field trip. There was one adorable boy who was eating lunch all by himself on the fringes, looking sad, yet looking like he was struggling to maintain some sense of dignity at being alone while everyone else chattered and sat in groups of friends. I just wanted to cry. I felt like hugging him and exclaiming, “I understand! I, too, spent my life on the fringes of my asshole classmates’ warped little hierarchal caste system!! It will get better!” But then I thought to myself, “No, it doesn’t get better! It’s my 23rd birthday and I’m all alone today, just like I’m alone every night!!” Oh, it was too depressing for words.

4 June 1998

I turn 24 today! I’m a little apprehensive and a little hopeful. In a way, it feels right, like it did when it became 1998. 24 is an even number, so it seems harmonious. Not to mention the fact that I lost my virginity in room 24, and I now live in apartment 24. My life is rather hellish right now, but apartment 24 is a safe place. Will age 24 be a safe place? I hope so.

… What will age 24 bring? Love? A sense of peace? A fulfilling career? I’ve come quite far since my last birthday. I’ll reward myself for that and refuse to beat myself up for what I’ve failed to accomplish. As far as I’m concerned, what I’ve achieved more than makes up for what I haven’t done. And there’s always this upcoming year…

I’ll never be 23 again. I’m sliding further and further away from my teen years and the excusable follies of youth, although I’m still quite young—so very young. There is still time to burn before I must be established in life, completely and thoroughly. But what if there isn’t time? Everybody has limited time, limited chances. Wasting both time and chances is almost a sin. What if I don’t get to accomplish anything significant (to myself or others) before I run out of time and chances?

The sun is disappearing. A gray beach is a good beach.

17 June 1999

I thought it was a smart idea—it’s better to nip something before it even becomes a bud than to try and claw your way out of a depression after you’ve crashed down the hole. After we hung up, it occurred to me that maybe my misanthropy is actually the beginnings of a depression. I was startled and distressed by this. My depression generally doesn’t manifest itself in an anti-people sentiment. I mean, yeah, I guess when I’m depressed I often want to be alone, but that’s more so I can sulk and cry and feel black in peace, and not because I hate people so much I want to kill them. But this feels so different from my normal depressions, which can barely even be described. Or maybe it’s just been so long since I’ve had a true depression, I don’t even remember its little nuances. Whatever the root, I’m not happy about this. I’m terrified it will blossom into something more.

18 January 2000

I can’t believe that I’m dealing with all of this at once without cracking, or at least without slitting my wrists. I want to cry so badly, but I don’t think I can. Perhaps the Paxil and St. John’s Wort have made me immune. I think about slitting my wrists…but I honestly don’t think it would be therapeutic for me anymore. It would just hurt, and then I’d have the added aggravation of needing to hide my wrists from my coworkers and rental office workers/potential landlords.

I try telling myself, It could be worse. And I know it could be. I could be living on the streets, or unemployed, or sick. I could be dealing with death after death in my life, like poor Nina H. I am grateful for the things I have. … Slitting my wrists and writing in my journal may have hauled my exhausted, immobilized ass through depression, but they can’t find me a place to live or get me the bank loan that I need.

Yeah, occasionally those old, sweet desires for death resurface, but I really don’t want to die right now. It’s more like my desire to “just go away for a while.” I used to ingest poison partially to self-injure away my pain, and partially because I hoped that I would lapse into a coma from it. So I sort of think about doing that again, but in a way, I’m too tired to even try it. And a little too scared.

19 November 2001

… it is better to be unpopular, strong, independent, and capable of enjoying time alone than to be popular, afraid of being alone, and needy of a group dynamic. I know this, but it doesn’t make it any easier to just sit here knowing that I’m only capable of attracting freaks while A. goes on and on about how many men worship her. It makes me doubt myself and my worth as a person. It makes me depressed because it reminds me that most of the world doesn’t appreciate what I feel are my assets: my dark, witty, self-deprecating sense of humor; my love of staying home and doing low-key, intimate, sometimes wacky activities with friends rather than constantly going to crowded bars and huge parties with a wide social group; my ability to be intense/serious/introverted and yet silly/goofy/friendly; my lack of a desire to drink, smoke, and do drugs; my nonconformity; my creativity. To me, and I guess to my friends, those things make me cool. To the outside world, those things make me a geek and a waste of time—maybe even scary. Or, worse maybe those things make me unremarkable and unmemorable, which is why K. and W. and most of [that] crowd don’t remember ever meeting me after we met several times.

I need to just…I don’t know…I need to just be alone and lick my wounds and try to convince myself that I am an okay person and someday I’ll find a guy who realizes that and finds pale, geeky, cerebral, unique, creative, dark-humored former self-injurers on antidepressants sexy…

6 March 2002

Oh god I feel like I’ve got one foot in the grave of depression and another foot on solid ground. I hate this grinding dichotomy inside of me. If I’m going to be depressed, then I almost want to be solely depressed so I can deal with it and get better. I don’t like these bumpings and rumblings beneath me, barely shirring my calm surface, yet active all the same. What’s worse: staring at the placid Loch Ness, not seeing anything moving in its depths yet knowing that there’s some hideous monster down there, breathing and living and surviving completely hidden, or actually seeing the monster in all its mind-shattering glory?

Part of me wants to just stop everything and go to bed and not wake up. She doesn’t want to work, talk to anybody, clean her apartment, play with her cats, do the laundry, pay bills, and so on and so on. Everything exhausts her. Everything overwhelms her. She doesn’t want a social life. She doesn’t want a relationship. She doesn’t want to look for a new job. She doesn’t want to petsit. She doesn’t want to ever advance above her current mediocre state of working as a lowly coordinator and living in an overpriced basement apartment in the dreary suburb of Beltsville. Forget about taking it one day at a time—she can barely make it one step at a time.

Then there is the other part of me who still sings in the car during her commute, laughs uproariously at the emails sent to her by friends, giggles at the random thoughts she has when driving home from work. She wants to work on her website, find a new job, save money for a trip to Finland, find a boyfriend, learn pottery-making. She feels ashamed of her lack of a social life and wants to improve it. She’s excited to attend the two happy hours planned for this Thursday and next Friday. She’s excited that the scale claims she has lost six pounds.

What does this mean? Do I have some kind of mild multiple personality disorder? Cyclothymia? Or is it just a regular depression gestating in a womb completely reformed by my antidepressants?

23 December 2003

After that, we headed to a bar in Alexandria which has karaoke on weekends. We met up with two of Missy’s fellow Clay Aiken fanatics—Tony and his girlfriend Danielle—and had a fucking blast. Danielle sang one song and Charlie was scheduled to sing one, too, but we had to leave before his name was called because Gates got totally trashed and sick. (After drinking that bottle of wine at the Indian restaurant, she proceeded to drink—at the Rock It Grill—something like three super-strong melonballs, three Long Island iced teas, and a gin and tonic.) I guess it was around 12:30 that we left, because Gates had passed out at the table, prompting numerous people to come up to us and say, “Uh, is your friend okay?” Then she woke up and came very close to vomiting, and we had to rush her to the bathroom, past an angry line of women waiting to use the john, so she could vomit into the toilet, instead of puking on herself at the table.

Anyway, this is a fabulous place and is a haven for drunk misfits. One of them even started breakdancing while two people sang a duet from Grease. Whoever heard of breakdancing to music from Grease??? We had a great time watching those drunk misfits sing their hearts out. Two of the guys I liked best weren’t drunk at all, and they were actually talented. One looked like a meek, gay, mild-mannered businessman, and we expected him to sing a treacly love song. Hell no! He belted out an amazing rendition of Welcome to the Jungle! He sounded just like Axl Rose. And he didn’t even need to use the screen at all—he knew all the words! We were flabbergasted. It was just so surreal to hear “You know where you are? You’re in the jungle, baby, and you’re gonna diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie!!!” screeching out of this anonymous cardigan-wearing businessman. Another guy—who looked like a run-of-the-mill frat boy jock—also sounded just like Axl Rose when he bellowed (by heart) a fierce rendition of Paradise City.

There were these two other guys I really liked, and they were both drunk as skunks. The first slurred and gyrated his way through I Fought the Law, and at one point he fell and almost knocked over all the karaoke equipment. Yet the karaoke DJ didn’t force the guy to stop and get off the stage! He let him continue until the very end. When a bunch of people started booing him, he yelled, “Boo yourself!” and repeatedly thrust the microphone into his crotch. The second guy was middle-aged and also did a lot of crotch-grabbing. I can’t even begin to explain to you how hilarious he was as he sang this one Stone Temple Pilots song (I can’t remember the title). For some reason, every time he sang the line “when the dogs begin to smell her,” Missy and I lost control. We were laughing so hard, we were literally in pain and we couldn’t catch our breath. Occasionally one of us would gasp, “It hurts!” or “I…can’t…breathe!” I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in years, and I am honestly astounded I didn’t pee my pants.

And there was a half-hour or so when the DJ halted the karaoke and played dance music instead, so everyone could crowd onto the tiny dance floor. A surreal moment happened when Santa Claus came into the bar, and after hugging a few people and downing a few drinks, went out into the dance floor and was dancing and grinding to Nelly’s song Hot In Here (“It’s getting hot in here / so take off all your clothes”). It was so strange to see Santa in that position!!

On the way to the bar, Gates repeatedly farted and burped in the car. Her burps were grotesque because they sounded like dry-heaves. Charlie and Missy kept saying to me, “You can’t comprehend how bad her farts smell! … Imagine sewage left outside for three days during the middle of summer. Her farts smell worse than that.” There was one time—a few months ago—when Charlie actually threw up on himself because Gates’s farts were so nasty! They literally made him puke! So, on Saturday night I was actually glad to be anosmic.

5 July 2004

I don’t plan to talk politics with Olivia. Whether she’s two or twelve, I don’t plan to secretly smuggle her into political marches and preach to her about why she needs to be pro-choice and anti-religion and anti-Fox News. It’s fucking ridiculous to do that to someone else’s child. She’s not a puppet—she’ll be entitled to make her own choices. But when she’s older, I want her to know that when it comes to ideology, she will be entitled to make her own choices. If she chooses to be conservative and bigoted … well, I won’t like it, but I’ll accept it, as long as she reaches those viewpoints on her own and isn’t just blindly copying [people]. Too many kids don’t realize that in a world of adult-inflicted rules and restrictions, they do still have freedom of thought. It’s not my goal to inflict my beliefs onto her. All I want to do, when she’s older, is to help her realize that it’s a big world out there—a world full of lots of different people, races, religions, and beliefs. Nobody is uniform and everybody needs to find an ideological belief system that feels right to them. If you don’t like somebody’s belief system, fine, complain about it all you want, but just don’t do it to that person’s face or—even worse—try to convert them to your side.

2 June 2005

Being a Lostphile, I of course am sitting here at my boarding gate at BWI sneaking glances at the other waiting passengers. If we crash on a desert island, what will these people mean to me? Who’s the Jack of this group? The Locke? The Hurley? Will I have to build a new island society with these people? Jesus, I hope not, because every other person is middle-aged and frumpy. There’s a bitchy-looking chick, curled up in on herself, chortling occasionally as she reads Bridget Jones’s Diary. Now she’s making a call on her cell phone. There’s a smiley man with Down syndrome. A granola-crunching sort of couple carrying an REI bag. A teen with casually tousled sea-tossed blonde waves, looking slightly bored and reading Us Weekly. A kinda cute, kinda geeky-looking Indian guy reading a book and listening to an iPod (like me!). An old woman in a wheelchair. A little girl in blue track pants. Are these the people who will die a fiery horrific death with me? Will we face Lostzilla together?



song heard most recently before posting:
That’s It, I Quit, I’m Moving On—Adele

25 years: a retrospective (part 3)

19 September 1983

We have gym and art today. In gym we either have to play baseball or softball. Gross me to the max!!! But I love art!

14 September 1993

I feel so strange right now. So useless. So blah. I want to go do something wild, spontaneous, full of life. I at least want to go take a walk down the tracks or to one of my numerous hiding spots. I feel so caged in by my stressful, worrisome, difficult classes, my lack of friends, and the rigorous daily schedule which I hold myself to relentlessly: everything from when I make my morning coffee as compared to when I put in my contacts, to getting into bed at exactly 11:00 p.m. every night. I get enough sleep but I’m still tired; I don’t get enough food but I’m not hungry (I better be losing major weight here). I’m going to be a failure in all of my classes. I want to go home but I’m almost scared to. 3 ½ weeks to go. Time is racing by mercilessly. September bleeds away into the band aid of time, and if next semester goes by as quickly as this semester, I’ll be abroad before I know what hits me. I’ll be twenty, which is virtually the crest of old age oblivion. Youth and time are pouring through my fingers and I can do nothing to stop it—my hands are shaking too violently to cup and keep them. I keep listening to the same tapes over and over again. Missy had a violent breakdown at dinner on Sunday, and I want to badly to be able to do the same. Even my breakdowns are quiet, hidden, and reserved…like me. I want to scream and curse and throw things. I want to chop my arms into raw meat and thrust them into people’s faces, screaming, “Look at this! Look at ME!”, but they are already looking at me, so that would be nothing new. Everyone is staring at me.

4 March 2003

Anyway, I don’t actually believe in Lent, and not just because I’m a recovered Catholic. I think that if you’re going to give up something to test your willpower, fine, then do it…but don’t do it just because it’s Lent. Do it when nobody else is doing it. Give up sweets during Christmas—now that takes willpower. My feelings toward Lent are similar to my feelings toward Valentine’s Day—you don’t need a day on the calendar to tell you what you should or should not be doing. If you love someone, you show them that you love them every day, not just on V-day. You buy them gifts out of the blue on an ordinary August day. You treat them to a romantic dinner when they are least expecting it in August. You don’t wait until February 14th to be romantic and devoted. Same thing with Lent! Also, I have no desire to give up anything. Life is too short. If something becomes really bad for me, like my shitty diet, or my propensity for not moving from the sofa, then I will work on cutting back on the bad thing or altering my routine, but I won’t abolish anything completely. Nothing in my life is so bad that it merits complete surrender. I’m proud of the fact that I don’t smoke, don’t do drugs, don’t really drink, don’t have casual sex, don’t cheat the government or my creditors, don’t drink a lot of coffee, etc. For the most part, I lead a good life. So why should I engage in self-sacrifice? Haven’t I earned the right to say “screw it” to the whole idea of self-sacrifice? I always say that I’m giving up sex, meat, drugs, and exercise during Lent because I’m a celibate, drug-free vegetarian sloth. So basically, I’m giving up all the things that are already missing from my life!

20 October 1984

I am so mad at Ma. She made me go to this shopping center in the mountains last Sunday. (It turned out pretty neat.) She and d[ad] yelled at me last Saturday and this evening. She told her friend Sissy that I’m a immature ten-year-old. Nanny and Papa stopped report card money, and I’m broke. Kris threw Emily around. Now she’s gone too far. I hate them! Kelly got her preemie—Skipper. We went to the D.Q. Nanny and Papa came for supper on Thursday. I made Papa a pillow. Kris was home Thursday. I was home last Friday. Ma’s blaming me of having my shopping cart in the middle of my room. We got a math decimals cartridge for Terri. I’m mad at everyone. I could only talk to you. Will you please help me? Sometimes I feel as [if] I don’t belong here. I feel as though no one likes me. I’m very unhappy.

P.S. Fluffy got a haircut. She’s really cute. Pat says sometime Fluffy might go blind. I hope not.

24 January 1994

I feel so blah. I guess it’s just depression and wariness over the knowledge that I’ll be back to school in less than a week. I’ve hardly done anything over this break, and I can’t even spend my final days hiking, going to Middle Creek, driving through Gretna, or visiting the Swatty, because the roads are still so awful. I can’t believe how heinous this winter has been, especially since I was honestly anticipating a mild winter after last year’s kicker. I guess the joke’s on me. “I don’t know…if January will hold together the bones of need…” I don’t know if I’ll survive this winter, this black February that’s to come. It scares me; I feel so weak. God, I want to see Terry. I hope my pictures of him came out okay. I feel bored, alone, stir-crazy.

“There must be something terribly wrong with me…”

10 December 2004

I guess I’m feeling a little cranky today. It’s dark, gloomy, foggy, and drizzly outside. Normally I don’t mind gloomy days at all, because they remind me of England and because I just think, darker, sadder things are beautiful, but it’s the end of the week and I’m tired and worn out and today gives me yet another compelling reason to want to stay on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, vegging. I’ll try not to complain, though, because I hate when people whine incessantly about bad weather and winter. I should consider this journal entry my manifesto in defense of bad weather and winter.

... And winter is a necessary thing, too. The earth needs an opportunity to rest and regain its strength for the lush bloom of spring and summer. Humans understand their own need to sleep, yet they fail to understand that the earth needs sleep, too. Besides, without the distracting, chaotic bustle of leaves and flowers, we get to see the earth stripped down to its barest, finest form, and that gives a glimpse of an otherwise overlooked source of beauty. It forces us to notice the overlooked. It heightens our senses in a different way. We notice silence and the way the sky grows luminescent at night when there is reflective snow on the ground. We notice the bones of trees. We notice how nature is suddenly calm.

Besides, don’t most of us raised in northern climes have fond childhood memories of winter? Snow was magical and mysterious. It transformed the landscape. It allowed us to do fun things like go sledding. Okay, so now snow also means backbreaking shoveling and crappy commutes, but the magic is still there! We just choose to ignore it. Just because I’m an adult doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to go sledding or throw a snowball. And it certainly doesn’t mean that I can’t still see snow as being wondrous and beautiful.

And anybody can appreciate the overt, undeniable beauty of spring, summer, and fall, but it takes a truly special—and aware—person to appreciate the beauty of winter. It’s like the difference between the most classically pretty girl in school (for instance, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, slender cheerleader) and the unconventional beauty in the shadows…

21 October 1985

I was at the school again today. That seems to be the new hangout place. I hate Scott and Christian. They’re always criticizing me. Ew, it’s Boyer! (that’s all anybody calls me) or, Hey, Boyer! I dig your bike! Ha! I don’t need them. Last night I saw the Pound Puppies in a cartoon at Nanny’s. They are so cute. I want one so bad! I’ll call him Flannel.

12 August 1995

Missy, Gates, Charlie, and I went to Laura’s, sans Terry, but she wasn’t home, so we went to [lead singer of Live] Ed Kowalcyk’s neighbourhood and stole garbage from the house that we thought belonged to him. Once we rooted through it, we found that we were sadly off-base. It actually belonged to a sick, probably elderly couple named Hazel and Francis Card.

8 July 2005

How sad that it always takes something like this to make me and others appreciate how fucking delicate we are, how delicate the balance is between comfort and catastrophe. You know I’m not religious in the least, but I recognize that everything in the world is a miracle in its own way. The fact that the universe and human beings manage to exist at all—and not only exist but thrive—is miraculous in the purest sense of the word.

Earth floats in a sea of cosmic debris and chaos, and yet it stays alive. One extra degree of tilt on our axis and everything could end. We are perched on that ledge of annihilation and yet we don’t drop over the edge. We continue our languid twirl.

All those chattering cells, spinning in their proper orbits in the groundwater of blood, doing what they need to do to keep the human body working. All those neurons firing at proper intervals.

The growth of trees, the bloom of flowers, the way the sun and rain may bring ruin through drought and flood and yet, in the end, they manage to trade places and restore balance.

There is wonder everywhere, for those who bother to look. But the thing is…we don’t look. Or else we only look occasionally, and then turn away, bored. And amidst all the wonder, such waste…such dreadful, sickening waste. The things people are capable of doing to each other!
Mother Nature isn’t perfect; the Boxing Day tsunami proved that better than anything. So you’d think that in the face of that, humans could maybe work together and be good to each other so at least they’d have something beneficent and sustaining to carry them through Mother Nature’s psychotic episodes. And there IS goodness among mankind: I see it, I know of it. But there’s so much horror there, too. The gamut runs from genocide to pickpockets. So much barbarism in such flawed little creatures.

22 June 1986

I did go to church today. D. and I went to see Karate Kid II. It was very good. Then we went in the mall to a couple selling stamps. I started collecting them. We went stamp crazy. I relaxed the rest of today and Ma and Daddy dropped us at Nanny and Papa’s while they went to Hershey. Tonight something terrible happened. My temperature was 103 and I thought I was gonna die. Ma put me in a cold tub and then after being in the air conditioner it helped.

7 April 2006

Oh Christ, I hate losing my mind over a boy. It really sucks. I just wish I could figure out how to shut up my yammering, stupid heart!

January 22, 1983

Fluffy is sick today. Daddy said she threw up and pooped at the same time. She pooped on daddy’s flashlight. Last night I watched Alligator. It was decent.

October 24, 1984

I’m working on Terri. Or I’m supposed to be. Barbara is taking charge complaining and ohhh! I hate her. Just wait when she breaks Terri. I’ll kill her!

July 14, 1985

Today I took Barb to the pool. Oh God, I burst crying because she and I were going to ride to Valley Beach on our bikes. But no, my parents won’t let me ride anywhere but the “simple trusty streets of boring Lebanon.” See, she’s got a 10 speed and didn’t say stuff like “oh I have a bike and you don’t.” But stuff like “switching gears is hard” and stuff like talking about 10 speeds and saying “you know.” My parents said if she says “mean” stuff they’ll call her parents! They think that always helps but it just makes the kid more embarrassed than ever!!! I don’t want to be with anyone but you. I can express my feelings to only you. Can’t my dumb parents see I’m growing up?

June 4, 1986

My Birthday! Almost everyone sang to me at lunch! Today was okay. I got to help in cleaning out the room. We had an award ceremony and I got a certificate for being a good student and another one for reading. Amy still came over. We had Gumby cake, ice-cream, and pizza. We also saw the movie TOP GUN. It was boring!

June 4, 1987

This morning everybody was yelling and singing Happy Birthday to me. Then Bridget, Sevannah, and D. ran to the office so they could announce it. Embarrassing!! Mom gave me a little party. There was cake and I got a new purse as a present.

June 4, 1988

Finally, officially, I’m fourteen! Most of all, I survived! Yes, I managed to survive my long, grueling thirteenth year, and live! On Friday, Wendy had my name announced over the loud speaker. It was the only one read, and they said it quite loud—so everyone heard. In first period English, everyone said “Happy birthday” to me and then, they all sang! I heard more “happy birthdays” throughout the day. In home ec, our free lab was really fun. (In our group, at least.) Everyone agreed that it was a sort of party for me. The food we made was disgusting, though.

15 November 1989

Sometimes I wonder if indeed the world would be better off without me. Everybody is staring. You come to school in a pensive mood, and they all look at you like an exhibit, that maybe you’re not real. Suddenly they care, because you might do something that they will feel guilty for. Please leave me alone. I can’t tell you! I can’t tell you. I think I’m hyping myself up for nothing. Anyway, it’s just empty gestures, empty concern.

I almost want to laugh. I’m sane! Really, I am! It gets me angry that people take peace of mind and serenity for granted. Sometimes I feel I’ve gone mad. Every person’s laugh is about me, every whisper is mocking my existence. Those around me, endure me. Perhaps they would never even hear my screams. If I’m invisible, a phantom, then that’s how I shall act…

5 July 1990

…they all think I’m crazy but I’m not. I hate them all so much; how they enjoy turning around and stabbing me in the back. They probably all hate me and want me to die and I don’t care. There’s no one to trust anymore. Today I was especially angry. So upset that while walking I was ready to come home and just scream “FUCK” or put a knife through my wrist.

31 January 1991

I’m sick of everything; I hate school, I hate musical, I hate everybody, I hate geometry, I hate Mr. Stuckey for making me feel stupid. Some days I know I’ll die when I wake up, and sometimes I can handle it. I worry so much about everything. When I walk through the halls I have panic attacks and become so paranoid that everybody’s talking about me. Nobody can like me

And this is the philosophical finding: these moods I get…they catapult me into unreality. They hit just like that. I go under the waves; I can’t talk or love, or laugh, and it’s like worms eating my soul. It’s the Bell Jar. That’s what it is. It descends on me, with its “stifling distortions,” and when it’s down I’m numb and cold and can’t breathe. This is how Sylvia Plath described it—”To the person inside the Bell Jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.” But mine isn’t really the Bell Jar…it’s the Shadowman. And in those moods he stalks me. Oh boy. And I thought monsters only existed in childhood’s world. The wall between there, and here, was opened…something came through.

10 May 1992

I don’t know. It’s all so fucking messed. I wish I wasn’t so afraid of everything. This has got to stop, as it’s getting to the point where I’m terrified to do anything, much less prepare for the “Great College Experience” in August. Sometimes I’m even too scared to just call my friends. I wonder what the hell’s wrong with me…what mental disorder, what psychoses, what ghosts haunt my brain. I’m caging myself in, and I’m unable to stop. Oh God … there’s so much wrong with me! I live in a delusion-packed world, I’m a totally different person with my friends than I am with me (they think I’m a silly, clueless space cadet), I’m absolutely terrified to do things like work or go out with guys (thus, to my mother, I am disgustingly “lazy” and abnormal), and I’ve begun talking to myself (out loud, no less) all the time. That all sounds so stupid, insane, and exaggerated, but it’s not. It’s the truth. And it’s killing me.

31 January 1993

…it only reminds me about how unhappy I am. It’s as if I can’t escape from this pain, no matter how hard I try. This great debate whirls in my head: should I or should I not commit suicide? At times like these it is so damn tempting. There’s nothing to look forward to, no hope to grasp. But the idea of suicide…of me actually going through with it…scares me beyond comprehension. I don’t even know if I could go through with it. I doubt I could. Then again, it would be ten times easier to kill myself than to continue existing as I am. I don’t fit in anywhere, no matter how hard I try. …what should I do? How am I going to survive? Who or what is going to pull me through this? If I wouldn’t kill myself, I could just give a half-hearted attempt, so I would be pulled from here and stuck in some mental hospital, where I could avoid life for a while. I don’t want to fuck up my chances of going to England, though. I’m so scared. What if I make the wrong choice? What if I commit suicide, and then destroy future chances for happiness which just aren’t evident right now?

I’m about to start crying…

14 March 1994

I’ve been suicidal since I was like fourteen years old, and I’ve never had such a chilling terror of it, like I did in my dream. Maybe because it’s so potentially close now…when it comes down to the wire, I lose my dark bravery and run like hell, my bowels releasing the whole way there. Maybe it’s because I’m in good sorts right now, despite and impossible psychology test on Wednesday. I’m in good sorts because I’m excited to see Heather again, to go home on break, to hang out with the whole gang two weekends from now. Plus, I got a B+ on my astronomy test. I know that beyond all this false light, the shadows hang; however, I’m not really thinking about all that now. I’m thinking of this sweet light, this sudden ability to breathe…it feels so good. The thought that I might have to kill myself in a few weeks makes me feel almost sick. But I have to do it, you know, if I can’t go abroad. I couldn’t even stay here if I wanted to, because I won’t have a place to live, and I won’t be registered in any classes. I thought about saving up my money this summer and then running away, but I know that wouldn’t work. I probably couldn’t even legally get a job in London. So, once again I come back to “an attempt,” only I wouldn’t know how to go about doing that. Slit my wrists in the tub? Take a load of sleeping pills? How would I direct my family’s attention to me in enough time to save me? They’d probably hate me, anyway, because pills and wrist-slashing are so lame, so cowardly. I have to do it. But I’m so afraid. Oh god, I am so very afraid.

23 February 1995

There’s a part of me unaccessed by any of them. A part I haven’t fully acknowledged to my diaries or to myself. I think that something strange and beautiful and frightening is breathing in that little square of hidden black. I’m feeling for its pulse and when I find it, I’ll open its vein and let it bleed out, but only on myself. I still have to keep something hidden from my friends, in order to protect myself.

22 August 1996

I really hate myself for not writing more, for holding back when I can’t afford to do so. Maybe I gave this analogy already, I don’t know, but I picture myself in a coffin-like box whose sides are throbbing black walls of agony. I lie as still as possible, rigidly constricting my arms and legs to my body so that they don’t accidentally brush against the walls and send pain ricocheting through my body. It’s hard to describe how I am now…I am just walking carefully, rigidly through my days, not thinking. I cannot think of anything at all. I daydream about England and my future a lot, but I don’t think about Terry, or this past terrible year, or analyze myself too much. I keep my mind strangely blank and constricted, focusing only on the future. Otherwise, I’m afraid, I’ll just snap.

Fall 1987

I know I didn’t write in a while but I’ve been busy. Oh, diary I feel so terrible. Nobody likes me anymore. Wendy called and kept begging me to come over. Mom finally agreed angrily after giving me another one of her lectures. About how I have only 1 friend and how I’m so sloppy and have no social life. I’m a loser, that’s what she’s trying to say. I have a good group of friends at school but what I need is people to hang out with me. Friends. Just good friends. My life is such a mess right now. No friends, no family, no boyfriend, no life, nothing. I don’t even like my poetry anymore. My life is over. Worst of all, I just can’t stop loving M.G. I’m building my life into a fantasy and I can’t take it any more. I need help.

14 September 1995

I wish I could tear the darkness out of me … stuff [it] in a box and bury [it] in the mountains, in those cold blue mountains that have held me captive for so long.

15 May 2001

But at the back of my mind was this nagging voice saying, “You were miserable because of him and now you’re happy because things are okay with him, happy because he graced you with a 5-minute conversation … happy because of some stupid little trip to the beach. Why can’t you be happy for better reasons? Why can’t you be happy for genuine reasons?” I feel partially disgusted with myself. Disgusted that I can’t be happy and unhappy on my own terms, rather than because of a single guy, or because of friends, family members, or coworkers who let me down. I’m almost 27…when will I get over my propensity for being so affected by the people around me? I’m not going to say that I feel like I am the puppet and they are the ones pulling the strings, because that connotes a deliberate maliciousness on their end—a willingness and desire to control me. I really believe that nobody understands how much effect they have on me, how much they can whack me in the kneecaps with what they say and do or don’t say and don’t do. The problem lies with me. I am too damn sensitive.

And the bottom line, of course, is that am just sick of mood swings…up and down, up and down. As if, after 14+ years of unipolarity, I am suddenly blossoming into bipolarhood. … And I am also tired of the weight of depression. I hate being reminded that I haven’t yet learned how to kill it. I sedate it every night [with antidepressants] and trick myself into believing that it is as good as dead. Then something happens to remind me, “Hey, it’s not dead. It’s still inside of you. It can’t sleep forever. It’s going to come back.”

It’s going to come back.

How the hell do you run away from something that is padlocked inside of you? Can I reach inside my chest and yank it out, this malignant, throbbing, slippery, deformed mass, and toss it into a fireplace somewhere?

For the most part, no, I don’t feel overtly depressed. But I feel like it is leaching into my bedrock like contaminated groundwater. It is becoming more difficult for me to focus on little things. I am procrastinating more and more. Everything—no matter how mundane, like bill-paying, grocery shopping, and putting away dishes—becomes a hill to climb. I don’t want to talk to anybody when they phone, although I do. I don’t want to be social. It is summed up best by Caroline Kettlewell:

I was disentangling myself piece by piece, severing my obligations. I wanted less and less to be asked of me. You sometimes hear stories of people who fall into icy lakes and survive drowning because their metabolisms slow to the barest possible level of functioning. That’s what I did with my life, a kind of icing down to the survivable minimum.

Am I slowing to a crawl? Am I icing down to the barest possible level of functioning? I am young and healthy, and yet I live each day just to come home at night, veg, and then go to sleep. When I wake up in the morning, one of my first thoughts is, “How long until I can go to sleep again?” It reminds me of college, when I would frequently take sleeping pills early in the evening. Not because I was addicted, not because I was sleep-disordered. It was just that no amount of sleep was enough. I didn’t want to sleep the 8-10 hours my body would grant me each night. I wanted to sleep 24 hours a day, because that was the only thing that gave me a temporary respite from my depression. If I couldn’t die, the next best thing was to sleep, sleep, sleep, and pray for something to put me in a coma. At a minimum, I wanted to drop out of life at 6pm and not have to worry about it until 8am. I wanted to disappear as frequently as I could. Is that what I am returning to now? An all-encompassing, organic desire to just disappear? To cut back on my daily activities until there is nothing left but a catatonic state of complete inactivity that renders me essentially invisible?

January 28, 1986

Today, the space shuttle Challenger blew up! It’s a tragedy because there were 6 astronauts and that schoolteacher Christa McAuliffe. I’m sad. They all died and we were all surprised and shocked.

May 2, 1984

My braces got tightened. We got SUPER BREAKOUT!

28 December 2004

On Sunday, en route home, I stopped at Heather’s house for a little while. Elizabeth and Whitney were playing Breakout on the Playstation, and I made no move to play because I knew I would suck if I tried to use anything other than an Atari paddle. Elizabeth kicked Whitney and Heather’s asses, and I was thinking, “No way will I allow my ass to get kicked at Breakout by someone born in 1995.” After, all I am the former Super Breakout Queen of the mid-’80s. So yesterday I dusted off my Atari set and played Super Breakout for the first time in like two years. The first score I got was decent, but I knew I could do better. Sure enough, within a few rounds I was a killing machine, topping out at 1200 points (the highest I saw Elizabeth get was 250 points) on four levels. That’s right, the Breakout bitch is back in town! After I blew on my smoking paddles, I sat back smugly and said, “Beat that, Elizabeth.” I’ll gladly take Elizabeth on, but only if we play with my Atari set. No way will I attempt that game with the ridiculous Playstation controller. It’s Atari paddles or bust, baby!

6 April 2000

What I was thinking about on my way to work this morning: loneliness, and how I am lonely at such a core depth, I don’t even feel it. I discussed vague details of this with Annida recently, and may’ve written about it in my journal, too. I compare it to that experience of being so hungry, you don’t even feel hungry anymore, or being so exhausted, you don’t even feel tired anymore. I feel like maybe there’s this membrane-stratosphere of things like hunger, tiredness, loneliness, hatred, etc., that surrounds us, and when you get temporarily tangled up in it, that’s when you feel those pangs clearly. But sometimes you push past the stratosphere, and you’re in this clean, bare room that is pure hunger, pure tiredness, pure loneliness, etc., and in that room you are consumed by the tiredness, loneliness, whatever—it invades your cells, you breathe it, you sweat it…and yet you don’t feel it because you are past that stratosphere of feeling. That’s how I feel about loneliness. I don’t feel lonely. I like being alone—always have—and get antsy when I go too long without getting some alone-time. But I think that at my core, I am pure loneliness. It’s a deep, engulfing loneliness…one that surpasses feelings like, “Oh, I feel lonely because I haven’t spoken to or seen anyone all weekend long” or “I haven’t done anything socially in a month.” It is beyond that. It is, “I want to spend my life with someone. I want to wake up in the middle of the night and roll over and feel his warm skin breathing next to me. I want to have someone who is first in my mind to call when something great happens. I want someone who will just as willingly accompany me to the Kennedy Center to see an opera as to Blockbuster to rent a cheesy horror flick. I want somebody who will dine with me at both Burger King and some ultra-fancy restaurant, where we will giggle at the rich people.” I don’t have that, and so I ache for it, and the aching is loneliness at a core, cellular level. The loneliness is a second skin around me, and it is so all-encompassing, I can’t feel it. So I don’t feel lonely, even though that’s all I am. I don’t know if this makes sense or not.

March 1992

If I was to die tonight I could handle it, for I am perfectly happy. I lay on the browned needle-grass on the smooth roll of a large hill in the midst of this Lancaster park. There’s something brilliant and pure about being able to fromp barefoot through the cold mud, twisting madly on the hillside, laughing and dancing and being free. Michelle is blowing massive color-fringed bubbles into the perfect spring-like day. They hover against the graying sky like perfect dreams, then pop. Why must they always pop?

Jessica is sketching, Jen is strumming the guitar, Shakti is reading and playing with Terry’s yin-yang balls, Laura and Jen and Terry went to sail a message on the pond, Greg and the crew are flinging a Frisbee into the carefree abandon of the wind.

I am laying on my stomach feeling my elbows grow wet. All around us, on this hill, are the wiry brown veins of mid-winter trees, throwing their proud breasts against this torrent of spring.

“Alas, I suppose I am turning into a God,” it was said. I could turn into a god of stone right here, if I allowed myself. I hate the thought of returning to the hated, filthy snatches of life tomorrow. No time, no time. School, musical, quiz bowl, meetings, obligations, and more and more and more…I just want to be me. Me. I want to forget about everything for a while.


song heard most recently before posting:
Nowhere Fast—The Smiths

interlude: home and depression

I ended up going home to Pennsylvania for Labor Day weekend and had a great time with my posse, the Lebanon Fury (as we have taken to calling ourselves, because really, is there anything cooler than a clusterfuck of thirtysomething professionals referring to themselves by a badass gang name?). We hit our customary sleazy dive bar, where one guy claimed to have thought I was a college student (yeah!!) and he called me a “little hottie,” and another guy declared that I’m an “undercover freak.” Oh, that’s so true! Only not so much with the “undercover” part. I was also eager to convince the sleazebags that I worked in the Russian fetish porn industry, but alas, I lost my window of opportunity. Next time, maybe. Oh, and we also played laser tag, which is something I’ve never done before. It was surprisingly fun. Less surprising: I did terribly, coming in last place among both teams.

I also got some freelancing done, which freed up Labor Day for nonstop relaxing back at my condo.

This upcoming weekend, aside from working on more freelancing, I’d really like to check out the Jerry Springer Opera in DC (it closes on Sunday), but I think laziness and horrible Hurricane Hanna-related weather will probably keep me at home. Plus I’m scheduled to give Julie a Dreamweaver tutorial, capped by dinner at the British restaurant in Frederick. (Yay! Cornish pasties! And Heinz puddings!)

I’ve been slowly plowing my way through all my old journals, gathering nuggets for my 25-year journal retrospective on this blog. Parts of the journal entries make me laugh, but for the most part I’m left cringing and feeling awful (which is one reason why it’s appropriate that two of these journal entries appear in the Cringe book). I won’t deny that I was heavy-handed with the melodramatic teen angst bullshit (I really knew how to spackle it on thickly), but at the core of the maelstrom was a very real case of clinical depression. I was just so, so sick, and I don’t think I fully realized until now—while reading each journal end to end—just how deeply the sickness ran. Obviously it didn’t completely obliterate me, because I’m still here. And I still have friends from that era, so the depression didn’t destroy those connections, although it came damn close.

It’s sad, really, because so much valuable time was lost, and I wonder how differently my life could’ve been during my formative years if I had sought treatment. That’s not to say that I never experienced any joy or had any happy memories, but life in general could have been more…shall we say robust...if I hadn’t been stuck in that depressive mire. I think of it as living in color versus living in black and white.

My journals too often give the impression that my life was an unbearable stretch of prolonged victimization. In reality, it was much closer to being a charmed life. Nothing is perfect; I certainly had some issues to deal with, such as my health problems and my parents’ unhappy marriage and subsequent split, but compared with what many other people go through, good lord, my life was like Leave it to Beaver. That’s one of the more insidious aspects of depression—it blots out the good around you, forcing you to fixate on the bad and genuinely believe that the bad is all that exists. It’s somewhat comparable to a total solar eclipse, in that you’re only able to see the faintest shimmer of the sun at the periphery of the darkness. On an intellectual level, especially if the eclipse is transitory, you recognize that the sun is, in fact, still there—just hidden. But if the eclipse goes on and on? After a while you start doubting the sun’s existence. And that’s how it is with depression: the darkness becomes reality and the light becomes myth.

I’ve been medicated nonstop for nearly 13 years now. I’m not delusional about its power; I know it hasn’t killed the monster—it just keeps it sedated. The medication hasn’t cut the tumor out of me and cauterized what remains (salting the earth, so to speak). It’s similar to those old WWII shells that are occasionally found buried and unexploded in back yards in Europe. This means that a relapse, whether I stay on medication or not, remains a very real threat. But for now I’m content to take my little pink pill each night and offer up a hallelujah of gratitude for the gift it gives me: an end to the eclipse and the ability to recognize the good in my life—and acknowledge that it was there all along.


song heard most recently before posting:
#1 Crush—Garbage