slap out of it

It's the middle of the night and once again I am not even close to sleep. I have a wicked hangover that is still lingering from vodka I drank twenty four hours ago and I am depressed and feeling foolish. Let me take a few steps back: I have recently made some bad decisions. And I recently learned some information that makes my previous decisions, the ones that I was complaining about last blog post, also seem pretty bad. Decisions involving P, and my ridiculous affection for him. Decisions regarding most men that I have met on this planet and my interactions with them, really. But let's try to take it one step at a time.

Let's recap this so far: I can't sleep. I am sad. I make bad decisions.

Bad decision number 1) meeting a cute boy with great ideas. no wait, that was a good decision. where does this decision go awry? going out with aforementioned boy for drinks: still all right there. going back to boy's house: eh, that's fine. almost crying at boy's house when he inadvertently delivers some upsetting news about your previous paramour: we-ell that probably makes the list but it wasn't so much a decision as an emotional reaction (a stupid emotional reaction). sleeping with boy an hour or so later even though the pit of your belly was twisted with nagging melancholy: oh look there it is. probably shouldn't have done that.

The upsetting news was genuinely upsetting. I think. I might just be creating dramatic mountains out of molehills. I do that. Anyway, the upsetting news was that essentially P was having the same sort of adventure that he had with me, an adventure that I thought was unique to us, and he was acting in much the same way he had in our adventure. So it was upsetting, right? I can be upset? I mean, it kind of shows me that the specialness that I attributed to our relationship was false. in my head only. He may have been a rare person for me to encounter, but I am one of a plethora. And I don't even think he was genuinely that person. I think I was played. I think it was all his game.

So now what? I don't like this new boy, because my brain is mush. I would really enjoy my brain getting back to normal. Is it possible to just decide to be happy again? Make an executive decision to stop caring about P? Just man up and slap out of it? I'm going to try.

Melissa Etheridge Radio

I can't sleep. And I think I'm sad? Although it is the vague, maybe-kinda sad, to which I can't exactly assign a specific blame, but can identify four or five things that *should* make me feel pretty crappy. The thing is, I'm pretty sure I'm sad about a boy, a boy I should have been over oh so long ago. And I have REAL problems! I have a mother who is getting divorced in two days, divorced from The Monster (yes, that Monster), and I have been playing at being her lawyer without knowing what the hell I'm doing, and in two days I have to be in court facing off against The Monster, unable to help my mom as she inevitably crumbles under his madness. But I want nothing more than for this magical tea to quell the awkward pounding of my heart so that I may slip off into the sleep that I keep chasing, night after night, because I can't stop thinking about that silly, stupid miniature romance.

I am getting ahead of myself. Sorry, fake internet followers. Let me explain. This boy and I dated for like a minute. No, really. Basically zero time at all in the grand scheme of things. Ten days. Ten days. Not even two weeks! But in those ten days (and the preceding month of getting to know him), he seeped into my bones like something out of a bad John Cusack movie. I didn't want to like him. I really, really didn't. Because he wore awful clothes (elastic jogging pants with hiking boots!), listened to terrible music (favorite band: Third Eye Blind!), and legitimately wasn't that physically attractive to me (sorry P, if you ever read this). Yet, I fell. I fell insanely. I fell like a teenaged girl falls, throwing all of those emotions right up in there, right at the beginning, despite all the warning signs. And then, almost immediately but not before I had fallen hard like an idiot (still with me?), I decided that those warning signs were too much, ended it, wanted it back, grovelled, was rejected. All in a fortnight.

Now, the time that has passed since we dated equals about 150 percent of the actual time we dated. And yet I'm still all stupid. I lay in this bed and remember how much better it was when he was laying in it with me, even though that only happened like six times. How did this happen? Why am I listening to weepy nineties woman ballads (The First Cut is The Deepest? Come to My Window?? I Can't Make You Love Me???), sipping my heartbreak tea (I love you, Kava), and sleeping until noon (er, one pm). His number in my phone is listed as "Face of Dicks" and I have deleted it and all attached messages several times so that I don't drunk text him something retrospectively embarrassing.

WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME.

Is it because I came crawling back and was cruelly rejected? Or because I agreed to be friends after a period of away-time and, now that said away-time has long since ended, he has yet to even try to make any friend-plans (even though those friend-plans probably would be merely a cover so that I could charm my way back into his heart/pants)?

Is it because I am clinging to this temporary heartache drama so that I don't have to focus on the aforementioned Real Problems?

Or because I lowered my (admittedly too high) standards for physical appearance in order to take a chance on someone with whom I connected deeply on an intellectual level, and yet I STILL ended up alone?

I think it is because he is actually a rare and wonderful person, someone who I felt an instant and inconceivably amazing connection with, who I was comfortable around almost immediately, a person who I sorely miss. And I kinda thought I was the same to him, but I'm beginning to believe otherwise.

(Foolish Games is on my Melissa Etheridge Pandora station right now, and I am thumbing it up. If that gives you any indication of my ridiculous mental state.)

long time apology slash occupier guilt

Sorry imaginary readers. I've been busy. Busy as hell, as a matter of fact. You see dears, not only have a gotten two (two!!) college-y job-ish things loosely related to those trees I love so much, I have also taken up with Occupy Seattle. For those of you who have been living under a rock, or (like most of you) don't exist, Occupy Seattle is a social movement standing in solidarity with Occupy Wall Street and standing up for the long-ignored basic human rights of the people of this country. The people of this country are finally, FINALLY, fed up with the way they are being treated. Minimum wage stagnation in the face of steep rises in the cost of living. Skyrocketing profit margins for corporate executives. Corporate cash funneled directly into the campaign purses of the richest and whitest, pricing out worthy candidates. In Washington, a state budget proposal that slashes programs for food assistance, Medicaid, fucking elementary SCHOOL BUSES yet refuses to look at eliminating corporate tax breaks. People have finally tired of living in a system where human beings pay four times the taxes, dollar for dollar, than corporations. Where the CEOs of financial powerhouses make risky investment decisions that should, in a true capitalist economy, bankrupt them, and our government bails them out. And then those CEOs use this money to further their own extravagant lifestyles. Etc.

I sort of accidentally joined this movement. I was watching it in a mildly dispassionate fashion from my couch because I had pretty much given up on this country. My plan was to learn about forest ecosystems and how to develop economically without destroying them and then peace out to some country that still had forests to save. This country, my country, was beyond my help, I thought. But as I watched I saw something extraordinary: Passion. The opposite of the traditional American apathy. People standing up to their government and saying: This is wrong, the way you are treating your citizens is wrong. And we will not take it any more. It was beautiful. It gave me hope. And I wanted to be a part of it.

...

I feel I should confess something here, dear imaginary friends. I started this post a few days ago and then got distracted by some shiny internet thing and never finished it. That is not all. Today, I bought two denim jackets.

Yes, two. denim jackets. two of basically the same jacket.


And as I sat down to finish this post, I couldn't help but feel like an asshole. Because here I was a few days prior being all "oh I love Occupy and everything it stands for" and what was I doing today, while my protesting brethren were out marching and climbing bridges and (possibly) getting pepper sprayed? I was buying two of the same jacket. To be fair, I am sick and shouldn't be out in the cold, I was on my way home from school, it was Goodwill, they are different washes and one has pockets while the other has more room for layers...blah blah blah excuses excuses. All I can see right now when I look at the reflection in my wine glass (oh I am also drinking wine, in my nice warm apartment) is a fraud. Why am I here, instead of there? How can I love them so very much and yet stay so separate from them?

I think part of the reason is because I originally jumped on this trolley as a livestream reporter. I was objective, I did not have a voice in the movement. But I cannot claim that anymore. I have a voice in this movement. This past weekend I traveled to Portland to stand with their occupation as it faced eviction. I stared into the eyes of a police officer in full riot gear, tear gas launcher in hand...and I only wavered a little bit. I was scared. I thought of my laptop, held high over my head so that the viewers at home could get a better view, and I thought: if it falls, so be it. I will get another one. Of course I haven't the spare thousand dollars to actually purchase another one but that is neither here nor there. My point is: where is that girl today?

Out buying two of basically the same denim jacket, that's where. Why? Why is it so difficult to throw my entire heart and soul into this movement?

Portland took a hell of a lot out of me. I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. I was sore and covered in mud. I slept for an entire day after and came down with a vicious cold. And on Monday I had to go to school and then work and then to a meeting with lawyers for my mother's divorce and then to work some more. And then the week of work/school/homework/family started up again, and I have kept away from Occupy because if I went back then I would get exactly zero of those things done.

I don't know exactly where I am going with this. I started off trying to explain how this movement has given me hope for what I thought were a hopeless people, and ended up trying to rationalize my guilt for not being there enough. Or something. aaaaaaaaanyway, I suppose I will conclude with this: I love this movement and everyone in it. But I also love denim jackets.

just gonna preface this with: I'm crying like a foolish child

aaaand I'm watching cartoons. Yes, cartoons are making me cry. Avatar: The Last Airbender is making me cry, to be specific. I probably should not be telling you this, imaginary readers, but by now I kinda feel like this blog should be titled "embarrassing things Marcia does and says that for some reason she feels the need to share with the internet." Anyway, I feel embroiled in conflict and turmoil about my life at the moment, and actually have been for quite some time. And cartoons are currently making me cry because one of the characters has just had a heartwarming reunion with his dad and I'm feeling sorry for myself because I want a different childhood. Yeah. Welcome to my pity party.

I feel like I should apologize to every person I meet for being older than they think I am, or for not being at the correct point on the General Map of Life that I apparently should be for my age. I should preface every meeting with: Hi nice to meet you, by the way since you will inevitably ask and then be shocked, I am twenty-seven, yes I know I am an undergraduate no I don't have a credit card oh yes I'm still a barista no I'm not married yet and I have roommates no I haven't been out of the country and no you cannot meet my parents because one lives in a tent in the woods and the other one is well I am just not going there.

I thought I was processing things pretty well up until now. I knew where I came from (abject American poverty slash other shitty things), I knew I handled my situation poorly (fucked around for far too long and spend every penny I earned on shoes), and I knew I was doing everything I could to fix things for myself (it's kind of a slow process) and I thought I was okay with that. But I am not so sure anymore. I wish I could join in conversations when people talk about the instruments they played and the camps they went to as kids. Even the television shows they watched. I KNOW I am being fucking ridiculous and millions out there had and have it far worse than I did but you know what millions had it better also. And I deal with those millions every day. They are my friends. My classmates. They are the boys and girls I attempt to date. And I will never relate to them. I can tell them my hopes and ambitions but unless I pretend my life began at nineteen years old they will never fully understand me. And I will squirm around and away from them. I hate this. How did my brothers and sister manage to form solid connections with other human beings? Is it because they managed to get real jobs, keep the wind at their backs and the sun on their faces? I don't want that but at the same time I very much do. Because it would be easier. To have a faceless, normal career. a mortgage. decent car. health insurance. ticky fucking tacky. They can toss aside their nightmares of poverty because they have pulled themselves up and out of it. It only cost them their dreams, right?

Do I even have dreams anymore? I was going to be a writer. I was going to put down on paper those nineteen years, ride those volumes to fortune, vindication and victory. and break free from my madness. Then I realized I was a fool, standing on the shoulders of those who dealt with real suffering and trying to call myself tall. Now I'm trying to change the world (ha ha) but it's been so long I am exhausted and so very tired of pretending I fit in society. And I don't even think I am making sense anymore, am I?

 I'm sorry. It's just, when I close my eyes I want to see darkness instead of these memories.

"we're all scum. good luck climbing out of the gutter."

I still remember those words so clearly. Six years later and they're still bouncing around in my brain. I wonder if you even knew the can of worms you were throwing at me with those words. You were angry and snarky and feeling bad about your own self because I was trying to cut the strings from our group of burnt out pals. But those words cut into a different part of me; they dove like a retrovirus into my blood and spliced into my DNA. Those words are a part of me, did you know that? Because I was born in the gutter. I've been trying to climb out for twenty seven years. You knew that.

Oh man you know I am doing that same thing I do in my emo blog on the lj!! I am talking in fucking metaphors to someone who will never read this damn thing yet is the only person who would ever understand it. MUST. PUT. END. TO.


Sorry, imaginary pals. I was talking to my first love, long after we ended. He was angry at me for some reason or another having to do with my live-improvement efforts (I think I was enrolling in school) and so spat those words out at me in an attempt to bring me down. We ran around with a pretty ridiculous crowd at the time. We grew up in a small town and then moved to a shitty city. Didn't go to college out of high school and spent most of our time using various recreational drugs and talking empty static about making the world a better place. Working shitty jobs and raving on the weekends. Drunk most of the time. It was a good life for awhile, away from my ridiculous family and avoiding the other, more serious issues that accompanied them. I didn't like to think about my parents or my brother or the monster, and I didn't have to. But when he said those words I felt like nothing more true could ever be said about me. I am scum. I was born from scum and I'd lived as scum and I was doing fuck all to make my story any different from the rest of them. And I still can't get away from that feeling! I am ~22 credits from a Bachelor of Science. I am going to Peru. I have been working on realizing all that talk for five years now. and I have ran so far away from Monroe and the dirt and grime of my old life but I feel like it is all following me. I don't feel like I deserve to be here in this apartment with polished little J, who is studying for the GREs and checking her credit score. I am never quite comfortable around people with their shit together, responsible people with responsible parents. And you know what is so fucking infuriating about the whole thing? That boy who said that to me, that comic little drunk, he now has a pretty damn lucrative job with Disney and lives in a nice apartment on Eastlake. with his girlfriend and cat. He probably doesn't have any recollection of saying those infuriating and tenacious words. And yet they stick so strongly to every cell in my body.

/rant end

dream on

I just had the most disturbing lucid dream and am now afraid to go back to sleep. Not even sure if I'm awake now. Everything is weird. I tried to wake up several times in the dream, straining and forcing my eyes. I would see my room, but would be pulled back into the dream before I could fully wake up. I thought I woke up once but I tried a light switch like in that movie but it didn't turn on. I kept making things I didn't want to have happen occur by thinking about them. I had no control, but I had control, if that makes sense. I was aware that I was making the things happen but I didn't know how to control them, or make what I wanted to have happen occur. Only at the very end did I establish some sort of control. I would leave my bag on a bus and then I say "oh I left my bag on the bus oh wait I didn't" and it would be in my hand. Or, we went roller skating (jon and I, to calm me down) and it was closed. I said "no it's not" and it was open. and things like that. But I kept making terrible things happen at first, I fell through glass, got lost in a ravine, kept sort of flying away from my friends, who all knew I was dreaming and were trying to get me to calm down. Jon did this trick that I knew about (maybe from drugs?) where I would be feeling bad and he would say "no you're not, you're fine" or having fun or something. and then I would say yeah I am and my mindset and mood would instantly change. but it wouldn't last long, because I was desperate to get out of the dream. The whole thing lasted maybe an hour and felt like weeks or months. And the roller rink was full of kids; I might have been trying to change that when I woke up. I awoke super abruptly too! had been trying so hard and then it was effortless. Was so scared that I would drift back into the dream. Jane was there also kind of trying to help, as were others. We were eating, and I think I may have hurt someone? But everyone knew it was bc I couldn't control it. I remember blood. Everyone knew that whatever happened wasn't real, and that if I hurt someone they would still be fine in real life. People were annoyed at me though, like a friend on a bad trip.  Oh and one of my professors was there asking me questions (I think it was my bio prof asking non bio questions) that I didn't know the answer to but then I *knew*  so I could answer. He was larger than normal. Jon was looking on, and knew that I was just willing myself to know the answers, and not actually pulling them from my brain storage. It was almost like "this is what you're gonna use this power for?" haha. I think this was at the roller rink, and I was in the process of trying to sound really smart when I woke up. Is it because I established control that I let go of it and awoke? I was trying so hard and was so scared up til that point!! It was the worst dream ever in the dream. I thought I woke up once and it was a false alarm. as I was drifting off I could see all these unpleasant images and was afraid of just letting the sleep take me, because I thought it would incorporate the unpleasantness. and it did. I need something to think of when I go to sleep because I do not trust my mind to give me anything good. maybe just music to focus on? so afraid to sleep but so effing tired. still afraid this is still the dream, but pretty sure it's real life. why, once it started being okay, could I finally wake up? I was like literally forcing myself to wake up in front of people and it wasn't working. I would leave their dimension for a min and come back. why could I only make things I didn't like happen? and why could I not control them, but knew I was controlling them? It was like I was aware and lucid in the dream, but I still couldn't control the happenings.

I wrote this in a frenzy before the details left me and now I have to attempt to normal sleep so sorry if it hell of sucks