Oh hell's bells, ya'll, New Year's Eve is almost upon us. And while I have never said anything so Southern in my life as that, I cannot wait to tell you how excited I am.
There's a venue that we have here in our little community. It's a FANTASTIC space and I can't emphasize that enough.
It's also goddamned cursed for me and that is where I am spending my NYE.
Every time I go to this venue, you see, I swear to myself that it's gonna be THE BEST EVER. I swear that I'm gonna have fun, that I'll be better, I'll be smarter, more grown up and a better daughter or son, and a real good friend. Singing Rilo Kiley to myself, I promise that this time, it'll be different.
Every. Single. Time.
Spoiler alert! It never is.
This venue is the site of the first time of me making a royal ASS of myself in front of my roommate's hot friend (s.a.: it's ok, it'd never work between us; he likes pot), it's the place where I got kissed by two cousins on the night I thought I lost my phone at the Mustache Pageant & Rodeo, and most of all, it's the place where my friends and learned the difference between getting stupid drunk and getting Hammertimed.
Gettin' Hammertimed is a very special kind of excess, you see.
And while I know that "oh man, we were so wasted" stories are just small potatoes, this was intense.
I was drinking because I'd decided that a guy I was halfway interested in just wasn't a good idea (s.a.: that didn't stop me, but believe me, he wasn't), my friendswhoareacouple were drinking because it was a good friend's birthday and they were in rollerdisco costumes and my other friend was drinking, well, 'cause it was a party. And things were glorious for a short while. We lunged around in short shorts. The female half of the couple pointed out a guy who she whispered about as being "that midget that I puked on at a party one time" and guess what, he really was! One of my closest friends was running around in an afro wig that I am convinced was at least as tall as her. We danced, oh how we danced, and lamented our lack of skates.
Then suddenly, we felt the evening shift into shittiness. We'd all been drinking heavily at this point. I was taking what Brad Neeley could only describe as oblivion seeking slurps. Male half of friendswhoareacouple was really drinking heavily, which is astonishing and I wish I'd been coherent enough to appreciate it. After a certain point in the evening, I began texting my friend and begging him to come get me and take me out of this situation. I'd already run my little ass ragged all over the whole party telling everyone how fun it was. I was embarrassed and sad and had tried, as I always try at this particular black hole of revelry and devil's music, to drink myself into having a good time. (s.a. hilarity ensued)
When our particular and rather more sober than we cavalry arrived, my jolly party was in sorry fucking shape. By this point, the line for the bathroom was beyond patience (one bathroom for the whole venue, with one toilet, that both genders shared). I'm not saying some people peed behind the partitions in the storage/construction area of the venue... but they did. Male half of friendswhoareacouple definitely started to feel his drinks and started throwing up, so his girlfriend had the brilliant idea that we should stand in front of him to block him from view. Two five feet tall girls, blocking a much taller guy who's puking, from view of the entire venue. Yeah... that worked out. Walking out of the venue when our friends got us to finally get the fuck out of there was one of the better moments. The venue used to be a garage, so we're exiting out garage doors, all of us are ducking. All of us except one. Forehead first into the fucking door, all 'cause there is such a thing as an iPhone.
God bless you, Steve Jobs.
Then shit got real. We all had to get home, somehow. But most of us needed our cars the next day. After a little while of trying to figure it out, it became abundantly clear that our rescuer was indeed going to drive every one of us home.
You need to understand what I was doing this whole time. Back when the rescue mission first arrived on scene. Back when the puking and the foreheading into garage doors was happening. Back to when everything first started to change. I, ladies and gents, was sitting in my seat, rocking back and forth, repeating two words over and over again, unceasingly, almost the entire time: I'm sorry.
Seriously.
While I was apologising to God, my mother and everyone, we managed to pour ourselves into rescue ranger friend's car and get back to my friendswhoareacouple's house... only to find they had left their keys in their car. Which was parked at the venue. So, naturally, instead of letting the sober person who drove everyone do it, tiny drunk female half of friendswhoareacouple basically scaled his body and managed to have him holding her above his head by the ass while she tried to climb the tree. In a giant sequined top. Then male half, who by this point had stopped vomiting, then tried to climb the tree. I distinctly remember seeing this, so it was around the time I figured out that I was alone in the car and stopped apologising to nobody. He leapt upon the tree and seemed to be making progress, when suddenly the branch he was on broke. He flipped upside down, clinging to that tree like a koala gripping an early 90s pencil. And then fell flat on his back like an awkward fucking turtle.
And that, dearlings, is Hammertimed. And the last time I was at this particular venue.
NYE get ready... 'cause I'm coming for you.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Well never mind.
There's this weird thing I've noticed in a bunch of my friends. They sit around and talk shit about all their other friends because their buddies haven't got their shit together, with the implication being that the person doing the shit talking does--which is rarely ever the case. Most of the people I really love are about the same: they've got a good job or a nice car or are in a steady relationship or something that gives them the feel of respectability. But I know they all do things that are simply jaw-droppingly stupid. And I know because honestly, for a lot of them, I'm one of the ones who helps them pick up the pieces. Because I don't judge. Because I understand. This may come as a surprise, but I do jaw-droppingly stupid things, too. Kind of professionally. I hope you haven't died from the shock of this admission. I've got my mind mostly together, but my life is a mess. I know this. I wouldn't have a blog with these kind of stories if it weren't, ya'll. So don't think I'm trying to judge or preach when I say the following:
Just because you always land on your feet does not mean your shit is together.
Ask yourself something. Did you get that nice car entirely on your own? How about your flashy, 'grown-up' job--do you wake up every day thrilled to go to work? How together would you be if suddenly, nobody was there to help you? How much of what you've "accomplished" would stand up on its own if you had to go it alone? And how much is based on, well, you choosing some arbitrary fact to lord over those around you because you're scared or feeling unfulfilled?
I know that for me, it's taken a combination of luck and the people who love me to get me through most of my disasters. Whether it's a romantic entanglement gone awry, all the times my darling dog has decided to try to take on a beast four times her size or just the lonely awkward parts of being human, I've managed to skate across some fucking thin ice by chance and with a helping hand. And I understand the need to share with someone what's on your mind, especially with a particular friend who's irritating you or hurting you or just plain being goddamn stupid. Just don't use some arbitrary fact to act like you're better than those you surround yourself with, because if you need that kind of distraction, you've got bigger problems than whether you're together or not. Trust.
So here's a suggestion. Instead of acting like you're the only one of your group of friends who's an adult, who's got it all figured it, climb off your damn high horse and realise that you surround yourself with these people for a reason. Whether you want it to be true or not, we're all narcissistic enough to care about people who remind us of ourselves. So if all your friends are trainwrecks, well, brother: choo choo.
At least in my life, I'm all about family. I'm all about community. I think the people that I choose to spend my time with are far more important than the things I do--maybe that's why I completely lack ambition. Caring about people comes naturally to me, as does my willingness to jump in at a moment's notice and save the day. Or beat you down with what one of my favorite humans describes as The Righteous Stick of Learning. So I use so much energy loving/worrying about everyone around me, I'll never be able to single-mindedly pursue what others would view as a great career or get really into politics like so many people. Or maybe I'm just so grassroots you can't even see the sprouts of what I'm hoping to achieve.
My activism is something much smaller than any grand scale movement, less flashy and doesn't require a single moment holding a picket sign or a petition. I'm going to be the person who makes their life a little harder at times to help someone who needs them. I'm mostly going to just try to be fulfilled and content with what I have and to to take care of my little chosen family as best as I can. I don't think that makes me better than anyone else. I'm aware that a lot of times it makes me do stupid things that don't even help. But it is how I live my life.
Not everyone wants to save the world. But nobody wants to be alone or let everything crumble into dust. So maybe if we all take care of just a few people around us, we can save so much more than this vague idea, we can save ourselves.
So please, guys, if you're hurting, if you're aching, don't focus on the parts of your life you think are better than other people's. Focus on the fact that you probably have someone who has your back, who doesn't care if suddenly your car breaks down, your job lets you go or you're in a relationship with someone who doesn't even understand you but looks great in pictures.
There is so much more to life than that, then this made up scale of what 'together' is or isn't. It's like listening to the harmony while being deaf to the melody. Nobody cares how postcard perfect the picture in your head is when you're calling down others' lives in comparison. You may hear the glorious crescendo of your own perfect little symphony but to anyone else, it's just a random string of notes, warbling and incomplete. It'll never be as together as the most vile, off-key but whole piece of music. Because that's what I feel my kind of person has to offer. We aren't always pretty to look at, we're fucked up and we're messy, but underneath it all, you can hear it, the love and genuine excitement we have for living and caring about each other. For my part, I'd rather have that. I'd rather sing out loud and know I'm hearing every note than ever be more concerned with how it looks to anyone else. That's just how I know my kind of people. I can hear them coming long before I ever notice how they look.
To quote Leonard Cohen, We are ugly but we have the music.
Just because you always land on your feet does not mean your shit is together.
Ask yourself something. Did you get that nice car entirely on your own? How about your flashy, 'grown-up' job--do you wake up every day thrilled to go to work? How together would you be if suddenly, nobody was there to help you? How much of what you've "accomplished" would stand up on its own if you had to go it alone? And how much is based on, well, you choosing some arbitrary fact to lord over those around you because you're scared or feeling unfulfilled?
I know that for me, it's taken a combination of luck and the people who love me to get me through most of my disasters. Whether it's a romantic entanglement gone awry, all the times my darling dog has decided to try to take on a beast four times her size or just the lonely awkward parts of being human, I've managed to skate across some fucking thin ice by chance and with a helping hand. And I understand the need to share with someone what's on your mind, especially with a particular friend who's irritating you or hurting you or just plain being goddamn stupid. Just don't use some arbitrary fact to act like you're better than those you surround yourself with, because if you need that kind of distraction, you've got bigger problems than whether you're together or not. Trust.
So here's a suggestion. Instead of acting like you're the only one of your group of friends who's an adult, who's got it all figured it, climb off your damn high horse and realise that you surround yourself with these people for a reason. Whether you want it to be true or not, we're all narcissistic enough to care about people who remind us of ourselves. So if all your friends are trainwrecks, well, brother: choo choo.
At least in my life, I'm all about family. I'm all about community. I think the people that I choose to spend my time with are far more important than the things I do--maybe that's why I completely lack ambition. Caring about people comes naturally to me, as does my willingness to jump in at a moment's notice and save the day. Or beat you down with what one of my favorite humans describes as The Righteous Stick of Learning. So I use so much energy loving/worrying about everyone around me, I'll never be able to single-mindedly pursue what others would view as a great career or get really into politics like so many people. Or maybe I'm just so grassroots you can't even see the sprouts of what I'm hoping to achieve.
My activism is something much smaller than any grand scale movement, less flashy and doesn't require a single moment holding a picket sign or a petition. I'm going to be the person who makes their life a little harder at times to help someone who needs them. I'm mostly going to just try to be fulfilled and content with what I have and to to take care of my little chosen family as best as I can. I don't think that makes me better than anyone else. I'm aware that a lot of times it makes me do stupid things that don't even help. But it is how I live my life.
Not everyone wants to save the world. But nobody wants to be alone or let everything crumble into dust. So maybe if we all take care of just a few people around us, we can save so much more than this vague idea, we can save ourselves.
So please, guys, if you're hurting, if you're aching, don't focus on the parts of your life you think are better than other people's. Focus on the fact that you probably have someone who has your back, who doesn't care if suddenly your car breaks down, your job lets you go or you're in a relationship with someone who doesn't even understand you but looks great in pictures.
There is so much more to life than that, then this made up scale of what 'together' is or isn't. It's like listening to the harmony while being deaf to the melody. Nobody cares how postcard perfect the picture in your head is when you're calling down others' lives in comparison. You may hear the glorious crescendo of your own perfect little symphony but to anyone else, it's just a random string of notes, warbling and incomplete. It'll never be as together as the most vile, off-key but whole piece of music. Because that's what I feel my kind of person has to offer. We aren't always pretty to look at, we're fucked up and we're messy, but underneath it all, you can hear it, the love and genuine excitement we have for living and caring about each other. For my part, I'd rather have that. I'd rather sing out loud and know I'm hearing every note than ever be more concerned with how it looks to anyone else. That's just how I know my kind of people. I can hear them coming long before I ever notice how they look.
To quote Leonard Cohen, We are ugly but we have the music.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Happiness hit her like a bullet in the brain.
This is home.
When you have a brain like mine, a life like mine and you have to write, HAVE to write or you lose your mind, this is home; it's totally necessary. You need these words and the freedom of putting them where they aren't echoing in your brain and aching in your bones.
So. Let me see, how to put this.
Well, have you ever gotten yourself worked up over a situation? Something you couldn't control, a puzzle you were working yourself to the bone to solve? Then suddenly, you're given a piece of information that fits into all the gaps, something vital that you didn't even know was missing; it fits perfectly and makes you see the whole thing, the actual picture, for the first time. Because you were so busy trying to master it, to make it fit together, you just never saw. But once you finally see it, everything changes. And it stops being about how to solve it. You can let that go, because you have a better perspective.
Freedom is never in the places you think it'll be.
And can I just tell you how phenomenal that feels? Right now?
People can't always look into their hearts and interpret the mess that they find there in a logical fashion. And while it's nobody's fault, it sucks to look back on something and realise how little you knew about what was going on. Especially when you're someone like me, who defaults to defensive arrogance when confronted with something that just plain doesn't make sense. I hate being that person. I really do. I hear the words that happen out of my mouth and I just want to hide my face in a pillow, like I do during embarrassing scenes in movies. My biggest flaw may be my lack of imagination, but a close second is my desire to have all the answers the second I pose a question. Even moreso when I really thought I had it all together-- or together enough to be able to have questions about it in the first place, anyway.
The process of putting yourself back together sometimes means that just having plans stripped away is a relief, whether you really wanted what you were planning or not. Finally finding that little piece of the puzzle in the sofa of your soul that lets you walk away from something you just can't solve is kinda the best damn thing sometimes. Regardless of the fallout or how stupid you feel having made a big deal out of something that it turns out, wasn't, at least you know it's over. It ends up being just one more step in the process instead of something you're lost in. It's an immediate answer, clean and precise, instead of a layered series of questions that may not evoke any response worth having. And that's important.
If you can't see what you're doing, and I mean the whole picture, you're not going to put yourself back together right. You can't walk around with this half-assed Escher soul and a Picasso heart. Fuck the puzzle you're failing to solve, it's your pieces that you need to fit. It's ok to make mistakes. It's ok to get angry. It's always ok to be a little fucked up. But you can't live there. Sooner or later, you've gotta try to look around to spot what's stopping you from seeing. Chances are it's a tiny piece. So even if it's something that you carry with you as you walk away, I can guarantee you that it's still lighter than the weight of not knowing and carrying around all these possibilities in your skull. Oddly enough, nothing is heavier than things that end up having never been real to begin with.
When you have a brain like mine, a life like mine and you have to write, HAVE to write or you lose your mind, this is home; it's totally necessary. You need these words and the freedom of putting them where they aren't echoing in your brain and aching in your bones.
It's worry-making when what you're writing about is your life and people you love and care about and interact with, though. And I'm not the kind of person who wants to be passive aggressive. When it comes to aggression, I'm more the regular kind. So when I write about feelings on here, it's not with the intention of being mean. And it's never because I don't know how to deal with the situation in real life.
It's that it's in my head and when it's there it's white noise and waves crashing onto a beach like so many mixed metaphors. But when it's here? I can see it for what it really is and that is so wonderful.
So. Let me see, how to put this.
Well, have you ever gotten yourself worked up over a situation? Something you couldn't control, a puzzle you were working yourself to the bone to solve? Then suddenly, you're given a piece of information that fits into all the gaps, something vital that you didn't even know was missing; it fits perfectly and makes you see the whole thing, the actual picture, for the first time. Because you were so busy trying to master it, to make it fit together, you just never saw. But once you finally see it, everything changes. And it stops being about how to solve it. You can let that go, because you have a better perspective.
Freedom is never in the places you think it'll be.
And can I just tell you how phenomenal that feels? Right now?
People can't always look into their hearts and interpret the mess that they find there in a logical fashion. And while it's nobody's fault, it sucks to look back on something and realise how little you knew about what was going on. Especially when you're someone like me, who defaults to defensive arrogance when confronted with something that just plain doesn't make sense. I hate being that person. I really do. I hear the words that happen out of my mouth and I just want to hide my face in a pillow, like I do during embarrassing scenes in movies. My biggest flaw may be my lack of imagination, but a close second is my desire to have all the answers the second I pose a question. Even moreso when I really thought I had it all together-- or together enough to be able to have questions about it in the first place, anyway.
The process of putting yourself back together sometimes means that just having plans stripped away is a relief, whether you really wanted what you were planning or not. Finally finding that little piece of the puzzle in the sofa of your soul that lets you walk away from something you just can't solve is kinda the best damn thing sometimes. Regardless of the fallout or how stupid you feel having made a big deal out of something that it turns out, wasn't, at least you know it's over. It ends up being just one more step in the process instead of something you're lost in. It's an immediate answer, clean and precise, instead of a layered series of questions that may not evoke any response worth having. And that's important.
If you can't see what you're doing, and I mean the whole picture, you're not going to put yourself back together right. You can't walk around with this half-assed Escher soul and a Picasso heart. Fuck the puzzle you're failing to solve, it's your pieces that you need to fit. It's ok to make mistakes. It's ok to get angry. It's always ok to be a little fucked up. But you can't live there. Sooner or later, you've gotta try to look around to spot what's stopping you from seeing. Chances are it's a tiny piece. So even if it's something that you carry with you as you walk away, I can guarantee you that it's still lighter than the weight of not knowing and carrying around all these possibilities in your skull. Oddly enough, nothing is heavier than things that end up having never been real to begin with.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
That Time I Got Stuck In A Barracks Room for, Like, 21 Days.
This story is probably the most perfect example of exactly how I end up in some of my more spectacular moments. It is the record of a time where I made decisions with exactly the information I had available to me and they ended hilariously. Because quite frankly, I chose... poorly.
So flash back to that point in my life. Once upon a time, I was dating a boy in the military. And I would zoom all around in my little Kia to be with him. His family lived about an hour from my house and he would come home every weekend from where he was stationed, which was about three hours away.
I would go see him and fight with his little sister and hang out with his mom and they would take care of me. And it was great, he was affectionate and clever and he bought me things (which is only notable because he was pretty much my first boyfriend to ever buy me anything) and was generally a good boyfriend. For about six months. Spoilers! He didn't stop buying me things, but he DID stop being a good boyfriend.
I feel that this story is kind of the beginning of that.
So, blah blah blah, we're running around like we're young and don't have anything better to do with our time and money, which is really the way it was and that part's still pretty cool.
Then I got my kidney stones. Then I left my job. Then I didn't look for a new one.
And then one day, I went to visit him on post. Even though I was actually going to pick him up the next weekend, I'd driven to visit and whoops. I forgot my current insurance card. You may be unaware of this, but as a civilian visiting a military base, to get on with your car, you present your driver's license and your current insurance. I didn't have mine. And unlike when you get pulled over and they'll verify that you're current, the military has better things to do, which isn't meant to sound disparaging. They politely informed me that, no, I couldn't take my car on post. And that was that for them.
After having driven three hours to get there, I didn't know what to do. To me, the only choice available was to park it at the gas station near post. I was tired, I was only going to be there for a day and well, I'd done it before, the last time I'd visited when I'd forgotten my driver's license. Are you starting to sense a pattern here?
So, regardless, I'm here, I'm visiting, we walk casually up into his room (as it's after six and that's when visiting hours start) and we pull the usual routine, where after a certain point, I just don't leave the room. The next day, it's also business as usual, where when he wakes up late for PT in the morning and his CO is knocking on the door, I hide under the bed, half tucked into one of the rucksacks, half covered with a couple folded blankets. I had to make sure I was hidden for when they did roomchecks, you see. I also want you to reread that, because, yeah, that was actually commonplace enough of an occurrence in my life back then that I still remember, years later, exactly what looked the most like piles of stuff under his bed instead of a girl who is NOT supposed to be there trying to vainly sleep a few hours more.
So I'm there for a day and a night, decide I want more time. One extra day? It's cool. We're going to dinner and then I'm going to leave and I realise my phone is dead. Oh! That's not good. But I'm smart. I'd forwarded a text to him with the phone number I needed earlier in the day, 'cause I kinda figured my phone wasn't gonna last. He's in the bathroom, I grab his phone to get the number.... and what? Wait, I'm sorry, did I just see what I think I saw in his text menu?
Yeah, guys, I'm not proud of what I did next. I have never done it before and I have never done it to another person since.Because I loved that guy and I had never really had reason not to trust him. Nobody had ever really been unfaithful to me. But I saw what I saw and so, I started going through his phone. And what I found was a bunch of messages from this girl named Missy. Missy lived in a city near his grandparents, he had met her through myspace (FUCKING MYSPACE.) and she had a foot fetish (and if he ever protests this, I invite anyone to check his phone records from that time. He had indeed made a new friend with a phone number from that area and while I may not be able to prove the foot thing, I know and so does he). These are the things I learned in the minutes he was in the bathroom while I was reading and my entire body was going all hot and cold from the adrenaline, shame, anger and jealousy coursing through me. It was pretty rough. We ended up in this screaming fight and I, like the idiot I was, forgave him. And having forgiven him, well, what could I do but stay another night? We're onto three now, for those of you keeping count.
By this point it was Wednesday, I wouldn't be able to leave til after 8 PM (visiting hours!) and I was coming back on Friday anyway... so I might as well stay til the weekend and then just drive us both home. Beats adding an extra twelve hours worth of driving, right? Sure does! Until you find out that he doesn't get to go home that weekend. He has drill. So I stay the weekend. As of Sunday, my one day trip has turned into a week and I'm ready to go the fuck home. Haha. But we all know that's not gonna happen.
Because Sunday is the day I started to pass yet another kidney stone. And I was sicker than a dog for that entire week. I was either throwing up in his shower, sleeping under the bed or watching The Shield with his roommate in a vain effort to try to not want to die. Kidney stones hurt. And not in a stubbed your toe kinda way. Or a scraped off half the skin on your finger almost slamming it in a door kinda way. It is a straight up please-god-somebody-anybody-just-make-it-stop-kill-me sort of way. Flash past all the crying and screaming and vomiting and it's Friday again and we're both ready to go home. It's been 12 days and I'd meant to stay one night. So his roommate gives us a ride to the gas station.... where my car is no longer parked. Because it's been towed. Obviously.
We find out it's the military and not the city that's towed my car, which is good. But what's bad is that we're told I'm not allowed to go get it or even talk to the person about it without an active duty soldier who's stationed on that base to go with me. And since it's a civilian that runs that department, their hours are a VERY strict Monday through Friday, 8-5. So we make the best of it. We see a movie since I was so sick and stuck inside for a week straight. The next day we go to a house party and I get to meet some more of his friends. It seems like a pretty good weekend. We go back to the room, thinking, nah, it's cool, bro. We'll get this sorted on Monday.
Bear with me. I know this is a long story. But the following is pretty important information.
Now, I want you to imagine what I was like both emotionally and physically at this point. I'd shown up expecting to hang out with my big burly manchild of a boyfriend and his sweetheart of a goofy roommate for a day or so and then jet on home. I'd come with one change of clothes, enough money for food for a day or two and gas to get back home. I ran out of money fast and got real sick of wearing that same damn outfit but had no other options. And Bees (yes, that was his nickname) wasn't too into doing laundry on post, so all he had he shared, but it was mostly work out clothes. Add onto this the fact that they weren't allowed to smoke in their room, but did anyway, so we could never open a window or the door, especially since I wasn't supposed to be there anyway. On top of all this, I'd found out my boyfriend was cheating on me through sexting (and yes, that IS cheating) with a girl he'd met on the internet in the lamest ass way possible.
The barracks he was in were done in the old style, which means it's one room, longer than it is wide. There's one bathroom with a dorm-style shower and a toilet. There is a tiny sink in the corner and that's it. If I had to guess, I'd say the room was 10 by 20. The layout was: against the west wall, his roommate's bed by the window and front door, then their couch then his bed and a foot or so of space. Against the east wall, it was his roommate's standard issue cabinet/chest of drawers/desk, the TV stand, and my boyfriend's standard issue cabinet/chest of drawers/desk, the constantly full trashcan, a couple feet and then the sink. And I've pretty much described every single time we left the room. They left every day to go to work, from around six AM til often after six PM, and I was in the room, by myself. When they got off work, I still really couldn't leave. We didn't have a car to go anywhere and besides, what if the on duty person realised they hadn't seen me walk up? What if they asked questions? This puts me in this same confined and often smoke-filled space for twenty four hours a day. This entire time.
Ok? You got all that?
So back to the story. The first couple days of trying to get the car are pure fail. The station is only open during the times boyfriend is at work and neither he nor any of his fellow medics are able to get the time to come get me. He calls in a couple favors and is guaranteed to have some time to take me and we can get my car. It's Wednesday. It's been 17 days. Finally, I'll be able to go home! He's going to pay any fines that have accumulated and we'll be in the clear. Except, wait. If I'm not supposed to be here and it's an all male barracks, how in the world are we going to march my little ass downstairs in the middle of a work day to get to the office we need to go to?
This is where this shit gets a little I Love Lucy. Because we're desperate. We try, at first, to put one of his spare uniforms on me. Yeah.... not so much. I'm five feet tall and around this time probably weighed around 120 lbs. Boyfriend is about six foot two (had to look this up, I'd swear he was taller) and has been lifting with a kettlebell, well, for a while at this point. Even with the military's only two sizes available to us (too small and too large), this is not passable. Then we try his PT shorts and a plain ARMY shirt with a baseball cap. I'm still too obviously a girl and besides, my little ballet flats cannot pass for PT gear at any point, ever. Then I tried to fit into his rucksack, since I halfway curl up in there while I sleep under the bed anyway. We also tried to put me in his footlocker, thinking they could carry it down and put it in the car and then I could just pop out like a rabbit out of a hat once we were no longer within view of the building. All of these seemed like the logical courses of action. I cannot overemphasize that. We really, seriously were planning to put me into what was basically a giant laundry bag backpack and hide me from people who weren't supposed to know I was there so we could go to get my car out of impound because I was an idiot who didn't move it/was too sick to think about anything but the pain and left it at a gas station for over ten days.
Long story short, this didn't end up happening. We had to give up. What happened finally was that it was a four day weekend and although both my then-boyfriend and his roommate drew duty on Friday and Saturday, we were finally driven home on Sunday night by a friend of his. I remember sitting in the cramped backseat of that car, curled up in a tiny ball so that everyone and their bags could fit and feeling like I was on my way to rehab. I arrived home about 15 lbs lighter, shaky, emotionally overwrought and the smell of Marlboro Light smoke did not come out of my hair for about two weeks. The first place I went (besides home) was to my best friend's apartment, where I burst into tears because it smelled like girls and was clean and bright. And I wish I could say that I never went back to that barracks room. But I did. And while that was not the last time I went through his phone, nor was it the last time I found exactly what I was looking for, the rest of that particular relationship circus is just gonna have to be another story
Oh and for the record, I did get my car back. My mother and I went the next week, spoke to some guy for fifteen minutes and when he found out there was a female General coming to inspect the property, he let us skip the majority of the process and cut right to the part where I get my car back. Also? Since it was on post and had a current registration and insurance, the total fines we had to pay added up to absolutely nothing. Uh huh. My car was in the impound lot for like more than two weeks and I didn't have to pay a dime. Plus, I had my mom with me to pony up the dough for new tires when I had a blowout on the highway on the way back.
Cause yeah... that definitely happened. But I got my car back, nobody had to pay for it and I evenutally left that relationship. So all's well that ends... well, all's well that ends, anyway.
So flash back to that point in my life. Once upon a time, I was dating a boy in the military. And I would zoom all around in my little Kia to be with him. His family lived about an hour from my house and he would come home every weekend from where he was stationed, which was about three hours away.
I would go see him and fight with his little sister and hang out with his mom and they would take care of me. And it was great, he was affectionate and clever and he bought me things (which is only notable because he was pretty much my first boyfriend to ever buy me anything) and was generally a good boyfriend. For about six months. Spoilers! He didn't stop buying me things, but he DID stop being a good boyfriend.
I feel that this story is kind of the beginning of that.
So, blah blah blah, we're running around like we're young and don't have anything better to do with our time and money, which is really the way it was and that part's still pretty cool.
Then I got my kidney stones. Then I left my job. Then I didn't look for a new one.
And then one day, I went to visit him on post. Even though I was actually going to pick him up the next weekend, I'd driven to visit and whoops. I forgot my current insurance card. You may be unaware of this, but as a civilian visiting a military base, to get on with your car, you present your driver's license and your current insurance. I didn't have mine. And unlike when you get pulled over and they'll verify that you're current, the military has better things to do, which isn't meant to sound disparaging. They politely informed me that, no, I couldn't take my car on post. And that was that for them.
After having driven three hours to get there, I didn't know what to do. To me, the only choice available was to park it at the gas station near post. I was tired, I was only going to be there for a day and well, I'd done it before, the last time I'd visited when I'd forgotten my driver's license. Are you starting to sense a pattern here?
So, regardless, I'm here, I'm visiting, we walk casually up into his room (as it's after six and that's when visiting hours start) and we pull the usual routine, where after a certain point, I just don't leave the room. The next day, it's also business as usual, where when he wakes up late for PT in the morning and his CO is knocking on the door, I hide under the bed, half tucked into one of the rucksacks, half covered with a couple folded blankets. I had to make sure I was hidden for when they did roomchecks, you see. I also want you to reread that, because, yeah, that was actually commonplace enough of an occurrence in my life back then that I still remember, years later, exactly what looked the most like piles of stuff under his bed instead of a girl who is NOT supposed to be there trying to vainly sleep a few hours more.
So I'm there for a day and a night, decide I want more time. One extra day? It's cool. We're going to dinner and then I'm going to leave and I realise my phone is dead. Oh! That's not good. But I'm smart. I'd forwarded a text to him with the phone number I needed earlier in the day, 'cause I kinda figured my phone wasn't gonna last. He's in the bathroom, I grab his phone to get the number.... and what? Wait, I'm sorry, did I just see what I think I saw in his text menu?
Yeah, guys, I'm not proud of what I did next. I have never done it before and I have never done it to another person since.Because I loved that guy and I had never really had reason not to trust him. Nobody had ever really been unfaithful to me. But I saw what I saw and so, I started going through his phone. And what I found was a bunch of messages from this girl named Missy. Missy lived in a city near his grandparents, he had met her through myspace (FUCKING MYSPACE.) and she had a foot fetish (and if he ever protests this, I invite anyone to check his phone records from that time. He had indeed made a new friend with a phone number from that area and while I may not be able to prove the foot thing, I know and so does he). These are the things I learned in the minutes he was in the bathroom while I was reading and my entire body was going all hot and cold from the adrenaline, shame, anger and jealousy coursing through me. It was pretty rough. We ended up in this screaming fight and I, like the idiot I was, forgave him. And having forgiven him, well, what could I do but stay another night? We're onto three now, for those of you keeping count.
By this point it was Wednesday, I wouldn't be able to leave til after 8 PM (visiting hours!) and I was coming back on Friday anyway... so I might as well stay til the weekend and then just drive us both home. Beats adding an extra twelve hours worth of driving, right? Sure does! Until you find out that he doesn't get to go home that weekend. He has drill. So I stay the weekend. As of Sunday, my one day trip has turned into a week and I'm ready to go the fuck home. Haha. But we all know that's not gonna happen.
Because Sunday is the day I started to pass yet another kidney stone. And I was sicker than a dog for that entire week. I was either throwing up in his shower, sleeping under the bed or watching The Shield with his roommate in a vain effort to try to not want to die. Kidney stones hurt. And not in a stubbed your toe kinda way. Or a scraped off half the skin on your finger almost slamming it in a door kinda way. It is a straight up please-god-somebody-anybody-just-make-it-stop-kill-me sort of way. Flash past all the crying and screaming and vomiting and it's Friday again and we're both ready to go home. It's been 12 days and I'd meant to stay one night. So his roommate gives us a ride to the gas station.... where my car is no longer parked. Because it's been towed. Obviously.
We find out it's the military and not the city that's towed my car, which is good. But what's bad is that we're told I'm not allowed to go get it or even talk to the person about it without an active duty soldier who's stationed on that base to go with me. And since it's a civilian that runs that department, their hours are a VERY strict Monday through Friday, 8-5. So we make the best of it. We see a movie since I was so sick and stuck inside for a week straight. The next day we go to a house party and I get to meet some more of his friends. It seems like a pretty good weekend. We go back to the room, thinking, nah, it's cool, bro. We'll get this sorted on Monday.
Bear with me. I know this is a long story. But the following is pretty important information.
Now, I want you to imagine what I was like both emotionally and physically at this point. I'd shown up expecting to hang out with my big burly manchild of a boyfriend and his sweetheart of a goofy roommate for a day or so and then jet on home. I'd come with one change of clothes, enough money for food for a day or two and gas to get back home. I ran out of money fast and got real sick of wearing that same damn outfit but had no other options. And Bees (yes, that was his nickname) wasn't too into doing laundry on post, so all he had he shared, but it was mostly work out clothes. Add onto this the fact that they weren't allowed to smoke in their room, but did anyway, so we could never open a window or the door, especially since I wasn't supposed to be there anyway. On top of all this, I'd found out my boyfriend was cheating on me through sexting (and yes, that IS cheating) with a girl he'd met on the internet in the lamest ass way possible.
The barracks he was in were done in the old style, which means it's one room, longer than it is wide. There's one bathroom with a dorm-style shower and a toilet. There is a tiny sink in the corner and that's it. If I had to guess, I'd say the room was 10 by 20. The layout was: against the west wall, his roommate's bed by the window and front door, then their couch then his bed and a foot or so of space. Against the east wall, it was his roommate's standard issue cabinet/chest of drawers/desk, the TV stand, and my boyfriend's standard issue cabinet/chest of drawers/desk, the constantly full trashcan, a couple feet and then the sink. And I've pretty much described every single time we left the room. They left every day to go to work, from around six AM til often after six PM, and I was in the room, by myself. When they got off work, I still really couldn't leave. We didn't have a car to go anywhere and besides, what if the on duty person realised they hadn't seen me walk up? What if they asked questions? This puts me in this same confined and often smoke-filled space for twenty four hours a day. This entire time.
Ok? You got all that?
So back to the story. The first couple days of trying to get the car are pure fail. The station is only open during the times boyfriend is at work and neither he nor any of his fellow medics are able to get the time to come get me. He calls in a couple favors and is guaranteed to have some time to take me and we can get my car. It's Wednesday. It's been 17 days. Finally, I'll be able to go home! He's going to pay any fines that have accumulated and we'll be in the clear. Except, wait. If I'm not supposed to be here and it's an all male barracks, how in the world are we going to march my little ass downstairs in the middle of a work day to get to the office we need to go to?
This is where this shit gets a little I Love Lucy. Because we're desperate. We try, at first, to put one of his spare uniforms on me. Yeah.... not so much. I'm five feet tall and around this time probably weighed around 120 lbs. Boyfriend is about six foot two (had to look this up, I'd swear he was taller) and has been lifting with a kettlebell, well, for a while at this point. Even with the military's only two sizes available to us (too small and too large), this is not passable. Then we try his PT shorts and a plain ARMY shirt with a baseball cap. I'm still too obviously a girl and besides, my little ballet flats cannot pass for PT gear at any point, ever. Then I tried to fit into his rucksack, since I halfway curl up in there while I sleep under the bed anyway. We also tried to put me in his footlocker, thinking they could carry it down and put it in the car and then I could just pop out like a rabbit out of a hat once we were no longer within view of the building. All of these seemed like the logical courses of action. I cannot overemphasize that. We really, seriously were planning to put me into what was basically a giant laundry bag backpack and hide me from people who weren't supposed to know I was there so we could go to get my car out of impound because I was an idiot who didn't move it/was too sick to think about anything but the pain and left it at a gas station for over ten days.
Long story short, this didn't end up happening. We had to give up. What happened finally was that it was a four day weekend and although both my then-boyfriend and his roommate drew duty on Friday and Saturday, we were finally driven home on Sunday night by a friend of his. I remember sitting in the cramped backseat of that car, curled up in a tiny ball so that everyone and their bags could fit and feeling like I was on my way to rehab. I arrived home about 15 lbs lighter, shaky, emotionally overwrought and the smell of Marlboro Light smoke did not come out of my hair for about two weeks. The first place I went (besides home) was to my best friend's apartment, where I burst into tears because it smelled like girls and was clean and bright. And I wish I could say that I never went back to that barracks room. But I did. And while that was not the last time I went through his phone, nor was it the last time I found exactly what I was looking for, the rest of that particular relationship circus is just gonna have to be another story
Oh and for the record, I did get my car back. My mother and I went the next week, spoke to some guy for fifteen minutes and when he found out there was a female General coming to inspect the property, he let us skip the majority of the process and cut right to the part where I get my car back. Also? Since it was on post and had a current registration and insurance, the total fines we had to pay added up to absolutely nothing. Uh huh. My car was in the impound lot for like more than two weeks and I didn't have to pay a dime. Plus, I had my mom with me to pony up the dough for new tires when I had a blowout on the highway on the way back.
Cause yeah... that definitely happened. But I got my car back, nobody had to pay for it and I evenutally left that relationship. So all's well that ends... well, all's well that ends, anyway.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Somebody yelled out, Hey Stop Drop and Roll! I said, That might save my skin, but it won't save my soul.
I was sitting on a couch somewhere, watching VH1, when I found out that Bruce Springsteen is his mother's only son. I'm my mother's only daughter, and we were both born to run....
I've been feeling stuck for a while. Stuck in my life, in my heart and my mind. I will be quitting smoking, soon. I will be writing more, soon. I will be having more money, soon. Everything is in in the future perfect and it just makes me fucking tense.
I WANT something, man. I want it now, all Veruca Salt and unspecific angsty yearnings and whatnot. I've spent all these sleepless nights trying to put my finger on it, exactly but it wasn't till yesterday when my voice and my will both ran away from me, definitively, for about twelve hours, that I could start to get a feel for what I wanted.
My entire life, my whole life, I've been living like I was on fire. I've gotta run, I've gotta keep it burning. And I've been still. And when you live on fire, you feel yourself crumbling to ash if you don't find your ways to keep it alive. It's this precious force in your soul and I think most people have it. They know they have this thing they have to do. But somehow they drown it. They make it shut up, and although I can completely get that, although I can understand wanting it to stop, wanting to have a life where you can sit and be nothing or everything, or anything to anyone, without it being a big deal; where you can be safe and not have to wonder about what's coming next. Without having to worry about who's burning who. But I can't, I just can't. It's exactly like Kimya sings, like I've written in dozens of other formats, like I feel when I close my eyes and feel the momentum when I'm standing in one spot for too long:
My heart will stop if I put out the fire.
And so I've gotta do it. It's the time of rain and my dogs snoring gently while they snuggle right up against me to keep warm, the time where I'm just in goddamn LOVE with my friends, with their individual faults and personalities. But at the same time, I know there's something inside me that's anxious and wanting and I've gotta start taking care of it, I gotta figure out how to deal with it. So I'm gonna run. Because I've gotta run, and it's gotta be now.
'Cause you see, I'm not only my mother's only daughter. In about a week, it'll be sixteen years since the last time I spoke to my father. And my father never ran, you see; he was always forcing himself to stand still, trying to find something inside himself. And that's it, you see. My father left me, forever, when I was a ten year old still too young and unaware to appreciate the gifts he gave me. He gave me half my sense of humor, my love of Ray Bradbury and dozens of illicit episodes of The Simpsons and Married, With Children.... things that happened long after I was supposed to be tucked quiet and safe, asleep in my bed. And in a way that I could never thank him for, when he left me, my dad ensured that I will never be tucked safe and quiet anywhere.
Because safe and quiet are ways of being still. And of all the things my father gave me, his heart is the one I'm most glad, most proud, most overjoyed to have been given. His life and this mind I've got, always searching and wanting have ensured I'll never, ever, ever be still. Because he may have left me, and I can never bring him back; but he'll never be dead, he'll never be gone til I let that fire go out.
And so I swear to God, dad, mom, dogs, friends, everyone who loves me.
I will never be quiet. I will never be still. And I will never put out this fire.
I've been feeling stuck for a while. Stuck in my life, in my heart and my mind. I will be quitting smoking, soon. I will be writing more, soon. I will be having more money, soon. Everything is in in the future perfect and it just makes me fucking tense.
I WANT something, man. I want it now, all Veruca Salt and unspecific angsty yearnings and whatnot. I've spent all these sleepless nights trying to put my finger on it, exactly but it wasn't till yesterday when my voice and my will both ran away from me, definitively, for about twelve hours, that I could start to get a feel for what I wanted.
My entire life, my whole life, I've been living like I was on fire. I've gotta run, I've gotta keep it burning. And I've been still. And when you live on fire, you feel yourself crumbling to ash if you don't find your ways to keep it alive. It's this precious force in your soul and I think most people have it. They know they have this thing they have to do. But somehow they drown it. They make it shut up, and although I can completely get that, although I can understand wanting it to stop, wanting to have a life where you can sit and be nothing or everything, or anything to anyone, without it being a big deal; where you can be safe and not have to wonder about what's coming next. Without having to worry about who's burning who. But I can't, I just can't. It's exactly like Kimya sings, like I've written in dozens of other formats, like I feel when I close my eyes and feel the momentum when I'm standing in one spot for too long:
My heart will stop if I put out the fire.
And so I've gotta do it. It's the time of rain and my dogs snoring gently while they snuggle right up against me to keep warm, the time where I'm just in goddamn LOVE with my friends, with their individual faults and personalities. But at the same time, I know there's something inside me that's anxious and wanting and I've gotta start taking care of it, I gotta figure out how to deal with it. So I'm gonna run. Because I've gotta run, and it's gotta be now.
'Cause you see, I'm not only my mother's only daughter. In about a week, it'll be sixteen years since the last time I spoke to my father. And my father never ran, you see; he was always forcing himself to stand still, trying to find something inside himself. And that's it, you see. My father left me, forever, when I was a ten year old still too young and unaware to appreciate the gifts he gave me. He gave me half my sense of humor, my love of Ray Bradbury and dozens of illicit episodes of The Simpsons and Married, With Children.... things that happened long after I was supposed to be tucked quiet and safe, asleep in my bed. And in a way that I could never thank him for, when he left me, my dad ensured that I will never be tucked safe and quiet anywhere.
Because safe and quiet are ways of being still. And of all the things my father gave me, his heart is the one I'm most glad, most proud, most overjoyed to have been given. His life and this mind I've got, always searching and wanting have ensured I'll never, ever, ever be still. Because he may have left me, and I can never bring him back; but he'll never be dead, he'll never be gone til I let that fire go out.
And so I swear to God, dad, mom, dogs, friends, everyone who loves me.
I will never be quiet. I will never be still. And I will never put out this fire.
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