Tag: Existential Crisis

38::39

To celebrate my turning 29 for the 11th time, we held a small party here at Throbbing Manor last Saturday in which I invited close friends and new neighbors. The turn out was good, last person was kicked out shortly before 4 AM, we ate party left overs for days and I did not, unfortunately, wake up in my own puke as I have been known to do before.
TheHusband, who is not so much socially awkward but that he hates people, wanted “TheHusband time” on Sunday, the actual day of my birth, to balance out all the socializing he did the night before. With TheHusband off doing whatever it is he does when he’s alone (namely, reading the interwebs, listen to podcasts and watching sports), I figured it was a good time to start unpacking boxes of books and journals for my office that I had not seen in years. Our living room bookcases finally arrived a few days before and in the process of unpacking and organizing those, I discovered more stuff for my office and I knew, likewise, that more items would be in the boxes marked the office that belong downstairs.
[In contrast to the recently arrived living room bookcases, my office bookcases have been here for months and I’ve not done a thing with them. Boxes in the guest room have been silently waiting for me to unpack them. The glare of the unpacked boxes is much like the glare of the pug when she thinks you’re up to no good.]
officebookcases-small For the better part of that Sunday afternoon, I spent time reading old journals dating back to my teens and 20s. Some entries were difficult because it was clear I thought of myself as being this sophisticated teenager when I was obviously so wholly naive. Other pieces were just sad in that back of hand to the forehead type of way and others were painful just for the memories they stirred. In addition, I also ended up reading some of the short stories I wrote through high school and it seemed that a lot of them ended the same way: someone dies a violent death. It’s pretty clear some things never change.
As I was reading, sorting and unboxing, I thought of these papers in several ways:

  1. As an archivist and with that in mind, how future generations are going to look at my work and attempt to figure out chronological order and such. Also how to preserve these materials in their current state AND move them digitally? Seventeen year old Lisa did not think to buy everything on acid-free paper. Seventeen year old Lisa was also hugely romantic.
  2. Collection fodder for story telling and telling of stories. I’ve long known I have had a habit of writing down bits and bobs on scraps of paper, which I’ve now collected into a folder with hopes to turn them into something solid instead of just collecting random bits of paper.

Re-reading these old tomes of mine sent me into two equal, but separate, trains of thoughts: I have accomplished much, have had experience and seen much of the world that most do not. Go team Lisa! On the flip side: Jesus Christ, I’ve pissed away a lot of opportunities, I’m soon to be officially old and there is still so much work to be done. Will I be able to get it all completed? Recently, my lovely friend John wrote an interesting spec on his own life plans and the fluidity of his life plans (from game Reindeer to game Caribou) as things in his own life have changed. This got me thinking about my own life and how I plan for the short term, not the long term. I have game ThinkAboutItTomorrow! TheHusband gets on me about this quite a bit whenever we talk about moving to Europe. He points out that if we go abroad every year, as I want to do, our chances of getting a home across the pond will either take longer or cost us more. Logic does not bode well with my own reasoning. I’m about instant gratification, I could be dead next year from a car accident and where will my savings get me then?
Since we’ve moved into Throbbing Manor, I’ve been having this minor existential crisis, of sorts, on a near weekly basis. But after reading John’s post, I began to wonder: If I spent more time living and less time wondering about this life I think I am supposed to be living, how different would my life really be?
Interesting thought.

136 different kinds of weather

frontyard-small
Violets struggle to grow in our front yard.

In the spring, I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of four and twenty hours. -Mark Twain
I’ve been circling around my blog for the last few months like a vulture to prey. I know that I should update because so much has happened since we closed on the house but I can’t find the will (as it were) to do the actual writing. So as the dead prey decomposes, so does this blog.
It would seem that my life is in flux, our life is in flux, though we have permanency (we closed on the house on 1/7/11, moved 1/13/11, TheHusband’s birthday), I have some sort of an income (I’m now working as an adjunct librarian at our local community college ) and our long laid plans are finally coming to fruition. We have started plotting our edible (fruit/veg/herb) and non-edible (flowers/shrubs) garden. I submitted a short story to a local contest. The pug, Ms. Wednesday, has had a few health scares but those seem to be under control. We are not poor, by anyones standards, and can enjoy the luxuries of roof over our head, clean water in our taps and the ability to purchase food. It’s hard to complain about our first world issues (shoes recently ordered were not the same color as on the website; I can only find our favorite bottled water in plastic bottles, not glass; etc) because in the larger scheme of things, they seem so trivial. So stupid.
I know the reasons TheHusband has been restless: this winter has been long (we woke this morning to find a dusting of the white stuff everywhere and it has been officially spring for a week) and most (if not all) of his hobbies are based out of doors. Cabin fever? Maybe. Lack of constant sunlight? Very much so. After living in California for over a decade, shuffling off to the greys of Michigan is a switch his body is not prepared for. He needs to feel the dirt between his fingers, eating the fruits of his labors.
We are depressed and that depression feeds back and forth to the other. I’m tired of being cold, of wondering when we will have a day when the sun will be out and it will BE warm and not an illusion as it is today. Regrets of why I, we – us, did not pursue living somewhere south or warm. Friends on social networks talk about flowers blooming, wearing skirts and flip-flops and all I can think of wrapping up in layers of clothing and drinking hot beverages to keep myself warm, inside and out.
In flux.
How to describe, then, when on the surface everything looks fabulous but you’re in misery? Misery is probably too strong of a word, more like conscious of the missing element. Something is missing and has been long before we made the move, bought the house, obtained the job. I’ve talked with friends who also feel it, that sense of self that seem to have locked itself away for awhile. Is it, then, a search for self? Everything I have long worked for is finally coming together, do I simply just need a new big life project to feel happiness? Maybe. It is, perhaps, about being centered about what it is I’m looking for? Probably. I have found that I am not alone in feeling as if they are missing the element of something in their lives when everything else is robust and happy. But we don’t want to talk about it – not to each other, not in our blogs, not to agony aunts. We keep it bottled up until we burst forth like an uncorked bottle of soda that has fallen. Some of it is about finding the center of ourselves, others it is for a search for some kind of meaning. The internet was to bring us close together, to commune with those like us and yet, when it comes to the inner parts of our soul, we hide and seek because retribution of differing opinions on these topics can be brutal. But it seems that for all the social networking we do to be connect with others, at the end of the day we are still alone in some fashion or another.
I wonder why that is? No one has an answer. Bourgeois, aging Generation X syndrome. Far too young for AARP, too old to think waking up in my own drunken vomit is a good thing. A slew of generation problems that go beyond the basics. To harp on comes off as snot nosed, spoiled Western brat. To ignore, causes distress and pain.
That is my confession.

but i digress

It is Friday night and I’ve made a very singleton type dinner of pasta with parmesan cheese sprinkled on top, spray butter spritzed on to adhere the cheese to the pasta. Multi-grain pasta, no less, to further infuse the idea that I’m trying to get ìhealthy.î I have a mere few hours between the time I got home from work and until I have to get to bed in order to wake up at 5am to head back to work. I had already walked the dogs, changed into my jammies, swept the living and dining room wood floors, prepped coffee for the morning and paid a few bills. While trying to decide if I was going to read a bit or watch a DVD before hitting the hay, I realised this was my life: and unless something changed, and soon, this is how it was going to be the incessant pattern, day in and day out, with nothing to look forward to and nothing to commend myself on having done, because, I always planned on conquering the world tomorrow and my past was filled with nothing but those empty tomorrows where I just existed and did not really live.
And I felt that sense of panic, that I would end up dead and alone, eaten by ThePugKids, all three of them fighting to eat my hands and feet. I can almost see them burping with a self-satisfied look on their faces. If pugs could smirk, mine surely would in utter defiance of not being spoilt rotten.
But I digress.
Some time ago, a month maybe?, I got this brilliant idea of starting yet another website (yet another vain attempt on my part on commitment and as always, flaking out), which is what you’re looking at now. I had lofty ambitions (doesn’t one always have lofty ambitions when they start projects?), where I would write everyday and it would be about ANYTHING I damned near felt like writing, no matter how trite, absurd, vapid or incessantly boring. I started creating tag after tag because I have IDEAS! PLANS! GOALS! It would be culture of Lisa, and I could finally start getting down what the fuck I wanted out of life without just thinking about it, daydreaming while I shelve books day in and day out, and then wonder how my temporary job has landed me an anniversary date.
Tonight it just clicked, hard for me, as I sat there straining the pasta before spritzing the I Cant Believe it’s Not Butter spray: I’m 34 years old, it’s a Friday night and I just feel like I’m totally left out of the world around me. I seriously am beginning to feel that I have nothing in common with most of my friends anymore and I spend my free time escaping via books, music, and television. And this is not where I want to be. That was the driving force, still is, of purchasing this domain and getting started on where I’m going and how I’m going to get there. Because I’ve got plans, goddamnit, and some how or another, I’m not going to remain another retail monkey working for people who are seriously dumber than a box of rocks (and I put myself in this position, exactly, why?).
Working in a bookstore wouldn’t be SO bad, because where else can you fondle for books for a living, tell people your unadulterated opinion for free and get paid? But the pay is killing me (and today’s check, sans a day when I called in sick last week due to pink eye) just infuriates me. I have a fucking college degree and I’m barely scratching poverty level wages!
Okay, look, I’m going to stop myself right there before I become way too disjointed about this initial entry. Here is the website, here are some of the goals I plan on working on and this here website is where I’m going to catalogue every stinking inch of the way, $deity help me:

  1. Take the GRE and get into a big girl grad school (I’m currently taking graduate classes via Central Mich)
  2. Quit smoking (already started, tracker can be found here).
  3. Lose weight
  4. Join a gym and actually go! (Already joined and went once. Yay me.)
  5. Write a book or twelve
  6. Actually learn how to casually date and not refer to men as being moronic half-wits who have more baggage as UPS, FedEx and DHS combined.
  7. Get into freelance writing as a job.
  8. Find another job!
  9. Put together the “100 things to do in 1000 Days,” encompassing weight loss, travel, quitting smoking, learning new hobbies, etc.

I’m sure there is more, there is always more. But now is my time, while I’m still young, have all my teeth and the energy to do it. Nothing is stopping me other than me, and if takes warm fuzzy bullshit to get self-motivated to do what I need to do and get it done, than so be it.

Can Lisa ever be happy?

My brother and I were sitting on opposite couches last night discussing the fate of our lives. It seemed that for every few good steps we take forward, we get pushed back another five. When the topic turned to relationships, he started cracking walnuts and I felt like it was some kind of sign.
On my way home from Denver, I flew through MLPS. A young couple with a child were in the seats next to me, with me taking the aisle seat (preference for leg room). The overhead bulkhead was closed and I thought perhaps they had already filled it with stuff as I needed a place for my messenger bag. But when I popped it open to verify, it was empty. After placing my bag up in the bulk hold, I noticed the father (presumedly) struggling with bags at his feet. I asked if he’d like for me to place that stuff in the bulkhead for him. He was quite rude while declining, and I just shrugged as I sat down. During the trip, the child was quiet and when it started to whimper a bit, the mother started breast feeding him.
I was a bit taken aback by the whole experience, especially since they apparently felt uncomfortable around me. The father and I kept jostling to not touch each other during the 1.5 hour flight. I kept to myself, leaning towards to the aisle with my book and my legs on the far left side. Megan and I were lolly gagging around the luggage carousel when I noticed the mother staring at me. I have no idea why she was so intent in me, but apparently one good deed for the day was enough to warrant the evil eye.
My brother and I were watching About A Boy last night as we talked. Our conversation stilted while we watched what was happening on screen and then would rev up again. I felt like I’m living in a glass jar. Being watched and scrutinized by those around me. I’m falling between cracks I never thought possible.
My birthday is coming up and I’ll be turning 32. I’m feeling the pressure of not having consumed enough or done enough by my early 30s. I should have my masters by now! I should be married! I should have kids! I should be doing a hundred and one different things and not worrying about whether or not a group project is being completed or if my grades will be good enough. I feel like I can’t relate to anyone in my age bracket and especially to women who are all walking that normality line that I’ve swerved so damn far from.
Everyone keeps asking me how Denver went. My monosyllabic answer of “Good!” or “Great!” seems to not fulfills their demands. I’m not sure what to say because in the end, I still have no answers to my questions. So perhaps I’ll start with what I perceive to be the truth and take it from there.
If you were not aware, Patrick had (has) three jobs. He own(ed)s part of a local company in Denver and does contract work for two others. I knew that while this was to be *my* vacation, for him, it was to be a hellish week of work. He was/is currently in flux with the local company, with him quitting the company half-way through my trip. One of his bosses for the contract work showed up prior to my arrival and left the morning I arrived.
He kept Patrick on a tight leash, calling at all hours of the day and night to get things completed. Many “dates” we had were broken by us driving to downtown Denver to work on shit at the colo, many plans disintegrated because his work schedule. Coupled with both of us being sick as dogs, tensions were high. Verbal fisticuffing ran rampart. It was terrible.
Verbal fisticuffing is the term I use when Patrick starts pushing my buttons, making smartass comments that only ignite me to push HIS buttons and make comments. This gets nasty really quick. There were no holds barred accounts where I let both guns fly. This was not the sound of a “happy couple” at all, rather, of people who could barely tolerate each other. It was distressing.
I grew tired of this game quick, opting to keep my mouth shut when he started which only defused him, which was the point. I was beginning to feel like an object, not a person. I whittled away the hours while he worked suffering on the couch with the illness that would not go away. After he would get done with work, he would spend a few hours playing video games on his PC. He would occasionally check up on me and make sure I had things I needed and that I was still breathing, but I did not feel like I was being comforted enough. Like something was missing, and I never really knew what it was.
The sex was interesting. Taking into account the stress from work, being sick and other shit going on, I didn’t care about those things. I wanted the sex to be as hot and passionate as it was the last time we were together. It wasn’t. Perhaps I’m rare, but despite all the emotional bullshit he was going through, I wanted him to treat me like he did before and he didn’t. I was getting tired (and bored) of always initiating it. And it wasn’t that he was not affectionate or showed affection to me, he did, but when it came to the actual act, it was always ME who had to take charge. Always, always always. Then the issues came up. According to him, his exes were dead lays. No imagination, passion or interest other than things vanilla. Things had to be done a specific way at specific times, heaven forbid that anything deviate from that pattern. Me? I’m not like that. By a long shot. And I tried. Tried to make him feel loved, wanted and needed. I introduced new things, taking baby steps. Nothing seemed to work as sex always ended with me on top.
Always.

damn you, Freud!

I’m blaming Freud for all my ill will right now, even though he is indirectly related. If he hadn’t come up with the cockamamie scheme of psychoanalysis, and if his children hadn’t spawned it, it would not have been part of my Intro To Lit Theory class that I had to take this past semester.
I can still see the textbook, flipped open to that page, discussing how individuals who tend to change things about themselves rather frequently have this: unstable sense of self.
In short, they have no idea who the hell they are!
Sound familiar?
It’s been the anathema of my life, really. (Would have you know that it pays to look up words that you are not sure the spelling of. I almost had “anthema” — which means to blossom. Amazing what one little letter does.)
It’s days like this that I need to take stock on what and who I am. So
let’s begin:

  • I’m 31.
  • I have my own apartment, stocked full of materialistic goodies.
  • Brand new 04 car.
  • Two pugs.
  • Family that loves me (even when they get on my nerves).
  • Exes who come and go out of my life, but overall general good relations.
  • I have 90/60 blood pressure, all my own teeth, hair is not greying and I’ve lost 30lbs this year.
  • Never been to prison, have my GED, going to colleg,e and tend to keep myself out of trouble.
  • Friends, far and wide, who love me.

So why, then, am I not happy?
I’m on this middle ground and it’s driving me crazy! Of course. On one hand, all of my friends (real and virtual) are shacking up and getting married, having babies and of COURSE I am happy for them. But. I’ve been down that road before and it’s not really something I care to get into again. I’ve lived with enough men, had enough proposals and what not for any woman in her own lifetime.
Yet there is this underlying and unquenchable thirst to NEED. But what is it that I need?
What. Is. It. That. I. Need. To. Make. Me. Happy.
I found that my own paradigm of thought was more different than others this year during classes. I did just as well as some of the best students but the train of thought that I would follow was never the same as the others. At first this disturbed me, because I thought I was wrong (if you are not following the herd, then you must be — right?) Later, as the grades start pouring in and I was doing just as well as they were, I realised I was right to continue on this path. But my path was different and while I embraced the difference, it felt like it was reflecting really my life as a whole.
Because I’ve never, ever, done anything by the book.
As you already may know.
2003 was about looking for who I was, to dismiss everything that made me feel icky and take me by the horns. I needed to heal and I needed to get my shit together, and consciously I did that. I made concrete decisions and found out WHO I was, after all this time. I took chances that I would have never taken before and I resisted things that I knew would end up
hurting me. Most of this, of course, resulted in my choices of men. I was no longer going to date someone simply because they were interested in me, rather, I was going to make sure that I was interested in them. Also, I was not going to allow myself to make decisions based on my loins either. Which was difficult to do.
So who is Lisa?
This is ironic, but, I was watching Charmed a few weeks back (via Tivo, of course) and one of the minor characters said to Phoebe (one of the major ones, if you don’t watch it) that so many women of her generation wanted to be independent and have careers, and when it came down to it, they were finding themselves in their 40s and 50s, alone. Not sharing their success with anyone because no one was around. That saddened me, because that was the life (or one of the lives) I had predicted for myself. I was (and to an extent) so thoroughly tired of relationships, I wanted nothing more than to be alone. But that is not working out EITHER, as I have discovered.
Another really cheesy thing I had read somewhere, was how if you spend so much time looking for yourself, you end up losing yourself. Life is in the here and now, and with that I do agree. This is why I dismiss most of the crackpot shrinks, drugs and what not, because I’ve been following their plan for the last 20 years and where did it get me? Bwahahah! More confused than ever!
But what it is about ‘me’ that is so uniquely different than everyone else? Oh, I know the old saying “You’re different than everyone else” but, I can’t keep feeling that somehow I’m ‘more different’ than those other unique people. I’m not sure if it is because they found someone to be happy with, or what the case is, but you know, this shit is for the birds!
I’m a lot stronger than I was a year ago. I’m a lot more positive and yes, in many aspects I’m happier, a lot happier. But the bottom line is, there is still something missing that needs to make me fulfilled and I really, REALLY wish I knew what that was.
x0x0x
Lisa
ps: I dismiss the crackpot theory about the unstable sense of self, because like most theories, it tends to generalize and not be concrete.

the tao of lisa

I have noticed, with quiet pleasure recently, this growing of introspective analysis from my friends, even though for the most part, I’ve never met half of them face to face. Yet I find this bonding getting closer between us even if we never speak of it in daily conversations. While I used to fret that the depth of the knowledge I know of someone seemed to weaver between being shallow or my own judgement, I’ve noticed the barriers have been falling left and right and while I’m stuck in Michigan with unable access to hug or play with them, I feel pride for their journeys as they too struggle what I am struggling with. It seems to be this uncommon bond that we seem to have pulled together, without planning or warning, and have embraced ourselves and each other, again, even if words are never directed as so.
In many ways, it is like a revolution of sorts, albeit a quiet one that is growing in numbers. It doesn’t matter who started it or who the ring leader is, it just feels as though we are all moving in the same direction and it pleases me that the more that I reach out,sometimes blindly, to this unknown world, I feel all this love coming from around the globe that is faint but growing.
The ideal of what “human” is and our psyche has long been since discussed via philosophers, theologians, writers, assmonkies and anyone else with an asshole. We can speculate and titillate and fondle our emotions only to find that even when we feel that we are alone, we truly are not. This is difficult to comprehend, I know, because even in my weakest hours when I feel like the world is against me and that there is no one to save me, there is some underlying truth to the heart of it all that there are others out there and while we are not geographically close, or of the same race,or of the same creed or even of the same culture, we seem to be finding ourselves to each other.
The nihilistic masquerade we throw over ourselves is dissolving. Recently I’ve been upset because I’m no longer angry and that pissed me off (ironic) but I realised NOW due to recent changes in the world that I don’t have to be angry (necessarily) to justify the means or the ends. Perhaps it’s wisdom or an unkown strength? Who knows, but lately the world has been coming into a brighter light and I have not had the reasons to find out why. It’s not a spiritual thing and I have not found “God” (even though my mother would be happy as punch to know that) but it’s something else entirely. I just feel like the whole world that I once knew has been dissolved in the blink of an eye and there was really nothing, per se, that changed other than similiar minds coming together and finding each other and acknowledging that this exists. in a way, it’s almost like being enlightened but I don’t think I can quite describe the feelings and give them their true benefit (then again, it could be sleep deprivation). As corny as it is, the truth WILL set you free.
I’ve rejected most common and accepted methods of ideology because therein lies the fallacy of interpretation. The contradictions each of these ideologies play breaks my heart because in the search for one thing, everything else is rejected and in true Gen X style, I rejected everything I was told to believe in, except the ideal of believing in myself. I was searching for purity and truth and love and found hate greed and blaspheme riddled within people I knew and in the texts I’ve read and the things I’ve experienced. Pure, true souls are not regaled to the insane, the innocent or the naive. I think we are all innocent of life because we have yet to discover and form opinions of life in and of itself. While we breathe, shit, fight and make love, for most it is mechanical there is no life.

at the airport

One of the great things about being a geek is the capability of having technology with you on the go. However if I was more of a geek, I’d be sitting here on wireless dialup account instead of, well, not.
The Grand Rapids International airport (GRR) is strange in many ways. First off, the security measures here surpass those of even Dulles (IAD) in Washington. My brother had said to me when he was flying out of GRR to IAD to come visit me last summer about the trials and tribulations he had to go through with security when he was waiting for his flight. I didn’t believe him. How could I? For a metro area of several hundred thousand people, many don’t seem to leave, and it would seem difficult to comprehend the idea that the security at GRR would surpass that of IAD.
I feel more and more out of place when I talk about my travels when in my own mind, I do not do more than go where I want. In my own eyes, the world is so large and I’ve seen so little, it’s hard to distinguish from what is “well traveled” to what is not. I guess it does sound a bit exotic to say I’ve lived in San Francisco, Washington DC, and Toronto and then come back here to good old GRap as the locals call it. Why would I want to come back?
There was a girl I had worked with at the cawfee shop who had said that her world consisted of Kent County and that was it. She had no desire to travel beyond her “bubble” as she called it. She wanted to get married, have babies, and be a mommy. She was all of 18. She had no desire to see the world or explore outside of her bubble. There are those I know who have traveled outside their boundaries physically and could not comprehend what they saw. I mean that here they are, traveling around the state, country or internationally, and disliked it.
Personally, I don’t know what it is. Is it the restlessness that I feel? Which I automatically think that is really screaming of my own lack of commitment. Can I feel comfortable to one day settle down in one place and be happy or even just content? It is difficult for me to say. The Geography of Michigan class that I’m taking currently shows just how diverse Michigan is, at least from a geographical point of view. There is so much to see and do here (as shocking as that may be when taking into heart my thoughts on Michigan and the Midwest in general), that I feel overwhelmed. I haven’t even been any farther than Traverse City and have yet been to the Upper Peninsula, and for being a “local,” to me that is disgraceful.
Because my trip plans for Europe have fallen through, I had been thinking of renting a cottage up in the UP for a week. Just me. The dogs. My laptop and pray-fully, no internet connection. I have found that the more I live alone, the more I like it. I’m more of private person and now I wonder if I will ever really be happy being with someone in a relationship. I think about that part quite a bit, that my own happiness is coming from within, but yet even at that stage, I would never feel comfortable being with someone else. Things like having a family do equate into this, but I do not ever really see someone else as being by side. I’ve honestly thought that if I was not married or in a committed relationship by the time, I was 35, I would end up having IVF kids. Keth and I joke about that now, but the more I look at it, the more I realize just how much of the truth it may be. I’m not scared of this idea, I guess I’ve always thought that it would be better to raise a child alone than in a relationship where it was abusive, and the issue is that it’s becoming clear with my own relationship choices that abuse is all I know. That is not to say that all the relationships I’ve been were abusive, but it all goes back to Alan and when I had for a brief moment in time the “perfect” relationship in my eyes only to have it blown up in my face – all because he had cheated on me.
Danny says I carry extra guilt left over from my Catholic upbringing, and I’m not quite sure that is true. I can see why he would think that but I’m tired of feeling like I have these rigid set of morals and ideas only to find the world shifts too much into the grey pattern area. Most of it conflicting. Like I do consider emotional cheating to be cheating. I cannot abide by the fact that if you are in a relationship that you would have the audacity of wanting to be with someone else. Oh, I know it’s human relations to look and admire attractive people, that’s fine, but when it becomes something else and ends up being more than a fantasy, then it becomes dangerous. Why get married or be with someone if you don’t, truthfully, want to be with them? That’s never made sense to me and those who know me the best would know the agony I went through prior the separation with Paul. It made me numb. I felt nothing other than I did not want to be here and I had to leave and I could never communicate to those just how difficult it was TO leave. The one thing I did resent was the common ideology that if you are not happy, then just leave, that I could pick up and go and no one seemed to take into account that they only knew my side of the story or even better, they knew only what I would tell them. They did not walk in my shoes and they did not seem to understand when I tried to make the situation clear.
I have this sinking suspicion I’ll always be a solitary person, and that discovery has hurt more than anything else. Not that being solitary is bad, but simply that not having someone by my side would hurt. I’ve dreamed of being with someone, this ‘being’ if you will, that would compliment me as I would compliment them. True wuv. So now, I wonder if I feel disillusioned simply because of past experiences or what the deal is. Hope is there, it’s a small flame, and it’s becoming smaller. In the end, I’m tired of a society that is cruel and malicious and I just wish people were nicer to each other, but that wish doesn’t seem to want to work out.
Keth says, maybe I’m looking too hard? She said to me when I was lamenting about this to her fairly recently and I can see why she would say that. If you’ve searched for “something” for over 30 years, it’s very easy to get discouraged but it’s difficult to keep up hope. It’s difficult to feel that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. I know there are many difficulties that I have sustained in my life that have bucked the system. I’ve left high school and went back and got my GED. I went to college, only to leave and come back many years later. Things that professionals say are the hardest to do, I’ve done. Yet I feel no satisfaction from these accomplishments.
($Deity save me from ignorant people. Please. A girl in my Geography of Michigan class asked if we had to know the bedrock type. Hello. Geography. Pay ATTENTION! Another woman compared the term ‘outwash’ (the left over silt from glacier movement) to the leftover drippings of Guinness. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.)

niche

when i tell people i was almost painfully shy as a child, they choose not to believe it. some of my actions now as an adult seem to speak this need to gain attention to myself, because i always felt like it was never quite there. people would believe anything i told them but the shy bit never caught on, even though it WAS painfully true.
when i was a child, i was already the tallest person in my class. my assertiveness was already showing as i was the one chasing the boys since kindergarten and not the other way around. once at a dinner party, we were to tell something about ourselves and i said when i was five i led some little boys out of kindergarten to the school playground across the street. I was bored with the damn playdoh. the host laughed and said i was too confident for my own good.
But as i got older, i fell farther and farther behind in female development, and not as in physical development but as in that I had no real female friends. the farther i fell, the more wigged out i became. Most of my friends were boys and it was further segregated more so when we were tested academically and I was the only girl who was “chosen” for the gifted program. when there is a dozen students in the class and 1/3 are being considered special, it makes it difficult for everyone else to get along, especially when you are 8. the program was abruptly curtailed.
as i got older, it got worse. i have very few female friends and those I do have, while i cherish them as much as possible, i don’t quite fit in with them. the whole issue of the males seems as daunting then as it does now as it was then because then i just wanted to push them in the mud, and now i want to push them into my bed. The irony is that one of the first things men say when the dating ritual start is how my assertiveness is refreshing but later on it turns into be the problem as we are breaking up. Especially my attitude about sex, apparently I think too much like a man.
But this is not where I wanted to go tonight because I’m terribly sad. I’m not sad because I’m leaving VA (though I’ll miss the friends I’ve made here very much), and I’m not sad because I’m not dating, but what I’m most sad about is that I’m nearly 30 and i still do not fit in.
Everyone has their little niche in life, whether it is as a mother, or a husband or wife. If they knit, read or sew or put babies heads on spikes, they have some sort of common denominator that makes them come together. I don’t have that. I don’t have my niche. I’m a 30 year old single white female who is going back to school, who stands 6′ tall, pierced, tattooed and collects legos. While I’ve been joining mailing lists and looking for local GR groups specifically to expand my interests, I don’t seem to fit in ANYWHERE. I feel like I’m 8 again and in Mrs. Buntrock’s (her real name) 3rd grade class waiting desperately for someone to notice me even though I had been going to school with these kids for years.
most people mistook me for being quiet as being a snob, and in some warped way i was. but this feeling of never quite fitting in has always bothered me and hence how i got nicknamed chameleon by a few high school friends because i floated in and out of all the social groups with ease. i belonged everywhere and nowhere and that’s reflected for most of my adult life.
Paul used to say that, in the beginning, it was great dating me because it was like getting a new girlfriend every six months. Hair, style, clothing: everything changes. But he says he can’t keep up because he never knows who he’s talking to and now all he wants is to date a stupid girl who will just want to be his haus frau.
but i digress.
i am scared and as frightened NOW as i was on that day when i started school for the very first time. as worried as the day i walked home from class with my math book wondering HOW in the world it was going to be possible to learn everything to get into high school. i am afraid of failing, I’m afraid of not doing my best. I’m afraid that I’ll be laughed at or mocked at for being the oldest sophomore in existence. I’m afraid they will talk behind my back.
when i had gone back to college when I was 22, i took the bull by the horns and got involved with the paper and other things. i leapt and i want to do that now, i see me at 22 and I want to do the same thing. I want to grab that moment again. I want to fight those thoughts of being a loser back down to the pit of despair so that they will never bother me again.
I just want to fit in.
—
before i took off tonight for dinner, ben came online and showed me pics from his outing to LOTR. Now the thing that struck me was not that he was obviously having a great time but that he had this fucking awesome scarf wrapped around his neck. the irony is that i love scarves. i have like five i trade off in the winter, from a bright orange boa- like one to a stripey wool one from the gap. what furthered the irony is that Paul has been bitching about his neck being cold since we had that cold snap and i offered him one of my ‘jaunty scarves’ and he kept whining. But this is Paul and i should have already known he would have whined, what the hell was i thinking? a few nights back when we were picking up Xmas presents to finish our shopping, we trolled one of the department stores and Paul couldn’t find the perfect BLACK (yet boring and not-stylish) scarf to wrap around his thick neck. As we walked past the Nautica display, next to it they had these really GREAT JANUTY SCARVES on sale. I mean, these fuckers were awesome. I was like OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. I wanted one for myself and had to smack my hand down because i did not need another scarf. I called my brother to see if he had a scarf and lost cell phone reception in the department store, so i walked out sans scarf. It was great seeing ben wearing a jaunty scarf. it made me smile.
Now this is jaunty scarf!
i am, as always,
the gay man trapped in a woman’s body.
x0x0x
PS: I’ll take the male models in the above website, naked and tied with a red ribbon. thanks Santa!

my first apartment

brought to you by fisher price.
No one is perhaps more surprised than myself to find out I have gotten approved for very my first apartment — ever. Perhaps the grin that cannot be wiped from my face or the fact that I am not backing down to neither Paul nor my brother also says it. But either way, the inevitable has happened and again no one is more surprised than yours truly.
My idea of my first apartment took hold when I was younger and wanted to go to college, graduate and then i would be young, single and living in the perfect loft ala NYC or Boston or London or Paris with the right hint of kitsch. I’d have the perfect job making 18 trillion dollars a year and I’d wear a size 8, not an 18. A string of beaus for the weekly outings and I’d make Carrie from “Sex and the City” green with jealousy.
You get the picture.
I did not think I would be 30, living in the burbs of DC, wrestling with a 20lb pug in the confines of my car while trying to take her to the vet. I did not think a lot of things would happen. I should be named “Murphy’s Law”. Nothing, ever, goes my way.
My very first apartment.
No roommates.
Mine.
If I want to dance naked singing ABBA songs (which girl doesn’t?) or lounging naked watching tv, I can. If i choose to not do laundry for days on end and I’m out of clean underwear, no one is to blame but me for going commando. If I go on a date, there is no worry about someone being home, no person to kick out and no hassle of dealing with nosey questions. I can kiss said suitor at the door and tell him to buzz off if I choose. If i want to listen to bad 80s gangsta rap while cleaning my toilet I CAN. IF I WANT TO OPERATE A 24 HOUR CAM SHOWING NOTHING BUT HOT STEAMY SEX I CAN!
No more quiet phone calls, or dealing with other people’s messes or having to worry about “their” schedule and “their” time. No one is responsible for anything but me oh mine.
Electric, phone, DSL (which will be hooked up 1/13/02) have already been ordered. Cable tv will be determined by budget and as I have no tivo since it’s pieced out right now and I’ll probably get one when I move (you know, so i can record those oh so special moments).
I have no furniture, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. Things will work out. I just need to figure out how to drug 3 pugs for 10 hr drive.
x0x0x
PS: I’ll be sending out new address updates with new phone and home address. Everything right now is going to my brothers and I’m going to pick it up then.
Lisa

please forgive me

Please forgive me
If I act a little strange
For I know not what I do.
Feels like lightning running through my veins
Everytime I look at you
I SHOULD be working on a paper that is due today, i NEED to finish packing and instead i keep thinking about things that i shouldn’t be thinking about and daydreaming. But hey, i actually got holiday cards out BEFORE THE HOLIDAY so i must be doing something right.
Two main themes keep running through my head and that is: the holidays and love. they seem to be pretty intertwined these days and it doesn’t help that i hole myself up in my bedroom watching chick-flicks when I need a picker upper (exactly what a i need a pick me up from is anyones guess). I could watch Bridget Jones’ Diary 1500 times and I’ll still get mushy knees thinking about the look Colin Firth gives her at the end of the movie.
As we all know, and if you don’t you will now, i hate the holidays, sometimes with the passion that makes others nervous. Without fail something always happens around Christmas time that makes me want to go chop off the heads of the carolers as they come singing about god, Jesus and love. Christmas when I was a child used to be great. I come from a large family (my mother is the eldest of 7, and I’m the middle grandchild of nine) and including extended relatives, we had a good old fashioned German Christmas everywhere.
[The images are not scanned in well, I’ll fix that later]
Christmas 1975
Christmas 1979
14′ high ceilings with 12′ high trees, that were decorated with ornaments my mom had collected over the years. Me and the infallible teddy bear. That one in the picture died shortly after that was taken when I got sick on him. A new one was dispatched and replaced and he still sits quitely by my bed and I still often sleep with him. But I am digressing.
Christmas and love. Love and Christmas.
Christmas 1992: After dating for nearly a year, I find out that Alan has been dating another woman and breaks up with me after Christmas dinner at his brothers house. I would have died for this man. I haven’t been able to say that about anyone since.
Christmas 1994: Shortly before exams, I slip on ice outside my parents house, I suffer double fracture and a dislocated ankle:
outside angle
inside angle
Christmas 1996:My grandfather dies on 12/23/96. I spent Christmas day driving to his funeral and being harangued by my cousins.
Christmas 1999: Spent solitary.
Christmas 2000: Spent in Miami. There is something not right about 80 degree weather on Christmas day.
Christmas 2002: ?
Love and Christmas. Christmas and Love.
This year I decided I wasn’t going to be the grump I usually am come October and thought I’d get into the holiday spirit. I’m TRYING to get into the holiday spirit and it’s getting a bit distracting because it’s not quite going that way. Here we are 14 days before the holiday and nothing is what it’s supposed to be at this time. I’ve told Paul over and over that my gift to him would be a ticket back to Miami for the holidays and i’ve been waiting for him to get on the phone to find out when to schedule this little trip and he has yet to do it. I know that it will end up with him screaming at me about how it didn’t work out and etc etc etc. But I don’t want to talk about that either.
So every year I keep revisiting the old journals and looking at what I’ve written and one thing I can say about myself is that I am consistent in my opinions on a lot of things, but the one thing that really bothers me above anything else is I keep apologizing for who I am. It’s thinly veiled some days and others it’s in your face, but no matter what, I’m always questioning who and what I am as if this would somehow make things better.
I’m sorry I’m loud. I’m sorry I’m obnoxious. I’m sorry I’m smarter than you, wittier than you and TALLER than you (unless you are taller than me). I’m sorry my life is in a constant flux. I’m sorry I’m not blonde, blue eyed or a size 4. I’m sorry that I snort when I laugh, that I am not afraid to eat in front of people, that i twirl my hair, make faces constantly or collect toys. I’m sorry I like sex, I’m not afraid to discuss it and that I’m not afraid to try with relationships even if i keep failing over and over. I’m sorry I’m pushy, demonstrative and aggressive. I’m sorry that I flip switches and push buttons on and off like a light and that I constantly ask why. I’m sorry I have this journal and that if you get involved with my that your life would be published online. I’m sorry for the exhibition streak and the wanderlust streak and the NEED TO ACHIEVE streak. I’m sorry I’m obsessive and compulsive and that I’m passionate. I’m sorry I don’t want to lay down and bare your babies right this minute and be your little haus frau. I’m sorry that the ideas that sounded good 5 years ago, 2 years ago, 1 year ago cause shudders down my spine.
Yes yes, men are shit, women are stupid whores and the world goes on. I’m sorry I don’t want to buy into that self-effacing bullshit and use walls to protect myself. I just keep trucking on, because you know, life is far too short to wear beige and play the games of walls and the whole “i don’t want to get hurt” bull. You never know till you try, and trust me, I keep trying and I suspect one of these days I might get it right.
I’m sorry for everything and anything.
When I was on the drugs, I was happy not to think these thoughts. I was happy that life was going in the direction it was going in and I was content on feeling nothing. Now I’m off the drugs and I feel everything. I cry during movies and when things happen. I daydream so much that i am beginning to hate taking showers or baths because I’m in there for hours thinking about everything and anything.
I just never saw the point of wasting your life on nothing when there is something. I’m tired of being the half-truth and the interim. when will it be my turn?
x0x0x0x
But how many corners do I have to turn?
How many times do I have to learn
All the love I have is in my mind?
thanks to sarah mclachlan, david gray, and of course the incomparable richard ashcroft and the lonly choir mp3 i happened to have.