Honestly?

I don’t even know anymore.*

*Not that I really did, although I was convinced that I did up until about six or seven years ago. But now I’m certain that I don’t. And I don’t know where to start or if it’s even worth starting and it’s not bad and it’s not good and what it all boils down to is that I’m a giant wuss and no amount of begging the Universe for a pair of white-gold-dipped balls is actually changing that at the moment and that’s frustrating on top of everything else slowly stacking itself on each other. So, even though there’s a lot going on, there’s really nothing happening.
Because of me.
Being chickenshit.
And then hating it.
And then hating myself for hating it.

… And I’m tired. I think tired is coming in at a close second. Like, really long-term, weary, worn-out tired. It’s like I’ve spent since I was 13 overanalyzing and oversentimentalizing everything and then I ramped that up in the last few years with the mental workout of recovery and now something in my brain just finally powered down and now I don’t want to do any of it which doesn’t really help me because I’m pretty lazy when it comes right down to it but I kinda felt productive in my inactivity before now because at least I was dissecting and understanding everything but now that I’m not even doing that I’m really just not doing anything at all.

I really miss being able to blame my ineptitude on being completely out of my mind.

I have one relationship in my past that I tend to make a lot of references to.* At this point I am able to discuss this person and this situation and even who I was at the time without any sense of emotional connection, which I really consider to be healthy given the amount of time that has passed and the amount of contemplation and active therapy I’ve participated in. And, while I can site this relationship for being the base of a lot of my behaviors and lasting mentalities, I don’t sit around and blame it/him for my problems or addictions anymore as I’ve gotten to a mental state from where I can identify how my choices affected me and how any outside influences could’ve been handled differently.

However, up until 7 or 8 months ago this wasn’t the case and that really really started to bother me, especially given that, not only has this relationship has been nonexistant for years now, but I’m in a much better place with a much better life and a whole new sense of self and healthy habits that I never really felt myself capable of maintaining or posessing. In fact, given how embarrassed I was by the association to that specific person and/or the actual relationship, I couldn’t for the life of me understand why I had this need to keep revisiting the situation and trying to make sense of all of it. I’d exhausted myself with therapy and introspection and sobriety and even talking it over with this specific ex (who can site everything he did wrong but continues to do the same things to his partners today.) And then one of my friends suggested I get involved with an Emotional Abuse Survivors Support Group.

This sounded ludicrous to me. First of all, I wasn’t even in this relationship anymore and I’d been going to therapy for eeeeverything that was fucked up in my life anyway so surely this tiny element would’ve been taken care of already. Secondly, while the situation I was in was unbelievably unhealthy, shockingly insane and tumultuous, and had many singular episodes of undeniable abuse, it couldn’t have been categorized as “abusive” because I kept going back to it and inviting it back into my life… surely I was just as in control as the other party, if not just as much at fault. Plus, me still not getting this whole “removal of ego” thing [necessary for full recovery from major fuckeduppedness] had me still believing that I was somehow immune to having been in a full-scale “abusive relationship.” I mean, I wasn’t locked in a basement or told to remain silent in public or even beaten on a regular basis… So, sure, I was in a codependent relationship with a lot of powertrips and mindfuckery and infidelity and dishonesty and other general dysfunction but never an “abusive” one. Somehow, even though I had spent years prostrating myself and taking emotional beatings from a genuine self-loathing idiot, I still thought that that sad, subservient, grappling wreck of Me that I was was still too proud or self-aware to have been susceptible to an “abusive relationship” as if those were reserved for people far worse than me.

However, I thought I’d at least check out the criteria just so I could go back to my friend and have hard facts to back up my assertion that my former relationship was not abusive. So I checked some online literature and smiled with a sense of relief when reading first and foremost that abusive partners have real jealousy issues and control issues… actually, I laughed out loud. My former partner didn’t give a shit where I was or who I was with most of the time and he rarely bothered to call when he said he would, so he certainly didn’t fit that stereotype. But then I kept reading and I felt my stomach bottom out with the familiarity of the symptoms:
My partner had blamed me for all the problems in our relationship and even his own abusive behaviors.
(“I wouldn’t have lied to you about seeing my ex if I knew you wouldn’t get mad about it.”)
My partner did make fun of and/or belittle me to his friends/acquaintences.
My partner did treat me so badly that I became embarrassed to bring him around or even tell people when we’d gotten back together.
My partner did withold sex and emotion from me.
My partner did cheat on me repeatedly.
My partner did make me feel like I would never do any better than him and was lucky to have him at best.
My partner did leave repeatedly and then come back, begging for forgiveness.

The list went on and on, even as I moved from site to site, hoping to find one list that had little to no relevance to my particular situation. It was only when I read about the characteristics of an abuse victim that I felt my eyes fill with tears and I had to push away from the computer in order to catch my breath. All of these things applied directly to me… I wouldn’t have been surprised if the person writing these articles knew me personally.
I did take all the blame for what was wrong in the relationship.
I did contemplate/attempt suicide.
I did have clinical depression.
I was pretty much textbook in pecking-order chastization and battering.
I did withdraw from my family.
I did defend my partner’s abusive actions to people around me.
I did repeatedly leave my partner (and constantly planned to.)
I did feel like I loved and hated him all the time.

In a frenzy, I spent the next month collecting and reading everything I could about mentally/emotionally abusive relationships (and not all from the internet, either. Imagine!) and, even more than being surprised or dismayed, I was increasingly embarrassed. Mortified, actually.

I was already embarrassed that I had been so codependent with an average-looking, uneducated, emotionally stunted child for so long but then when I read words about our situation and how his manipulations were just another form of brainwashing, I felt hopeless and worthless all over again. I realized that all that time I had been the very malleable, idiotic stereotype who was just as pathetic as I’d always feared. I was “that abuse victim” who “couldn’t” leave [for no apparent reason], which was a character I’d always been frustrated and disgusted with.

And all this was even more distressing to me because I was in a great relationship with someone who wasn’t even capable of this sort of mental destruction and here I was feeling the ramifications of something I’d pulled the plug on years prior. This wasn’t relevant to my life anymore! This had nothing to do with the people I’d worked to surround myself with in the aftermath! This was something I’d worked really really hard to be fucking done with! I was pissed to have to be dealing with this already-belabored situation[/man] again, when it[/he] was never worth any of my time in the first place. And the very last thing I wanted to do was to beat the [assumed] dead horse even further by talking about it more and having to delve back in to all the wounds and emotions and shit I’d worked to fucking get over. More than anything, it just seemed unfair and unwanted.

When I started talking to other women in an online support group, I was kind of in the same mentality that I was when I started going to AA meetings; I don’t fucking want to do this, I know everything I need to know about this, how is this going to effing help me, etc. I mean, seriously, how much is there to talk about? As it turns out, there’s a lot. And there are a lot of things that I had experienced in my former relationship that I’d never even stopped to think about that these other women brought to my attention. And it was amazing to talk to other women who were on the “other side” and had all the same feelings about it that I did: Why wasn’t it so easy to just leave even when you’d known you should for months/years? Why can’t you get other people to understand the need to leave even when you’ve been in their place? When do you stop dealing with the emotional bullshit of all of it? What’s the best way to present this to your children as a life experience? It seems like the more I talk to women, the more I realize that I’m among many many women who didn’t realize they were in what would be considered “abusive” until long after they were out of it. Many of us considered ourselves empowered, educated neo-feminists and were certain we were going to be joining a support group of women with whom we had nothing in common.

And, although painfully predictable to the theme of this essay, it’s been really amazing. We’ve gotten to the point where we can talk openly about the relationships we’re in now and ask each other to keep us accountable for our actions and the situations we’re in. We’ve told our individual stories and even pulled out pictures of these abusive assholes to have a group “WHAT WAS I THINKING?!?!” laughing-fit-style cleansing. It’s been really great.

Because of this, though, I’ve gotten to that point where I can casually discuss this former relationship as just a marker in time for reference’s sake like I would with such phrases as: “When I was 9…” or “On September 11th…” or “During my pregnancy…” To me, it doesn’t come with conflicting emotions or that underlying frustration of me needing to figure it out or right it.

This became evident when I was speaking to one of my ex’s ex-friends (who still keeps in touch with me, obviously) during this last weekend. While it’s been amazingly validating to have a handful of former friends of his go out of their way to stay in touch with me (especially after all the horrible things he made sure to say about me) and hear their similar complaints (although never as intimate as mine), I’ve really gotten past that point where I’m trying to show off how awesomely I’m doing in case they happen to talk to him or where I love to indulge in gossip about how terrible he’s doing or how awful he’s treating those around him and can just enjoy having a friend that I delight in the company of who - ohbytheway- happened to be a friend I met through a former romantic partner. There’s a real sense of triumph and recovery in the simple act of physically getting our new families together and talking about everything great that’s going on with us without ever mentioning the god-awful circumstances/person that set up our friendship in the first place.

Strangely, it’s the realization that those old, tyrannical emotions aren’t even bothered with anymore that has given me the most pride and sense of accomplishment of anything else in my years of therapy and recovery. I never thought apathy could make me feel so good about myself.

*This is something I won’t be doing after this entry. Promise.

Usually, I’m one of those positive-energy mongers, always pushing myself to keep the Big Picture in mind and seek out the good and/or humorous in everything. It’s been a very rewarding practice in the last couple years since I adopted it, actually, and is something I hope to pass along to my kid(s). However, in the last week or so since The Bad Thing descended on my psyche, I’ve felt like more things have begun to weigh on me. Even with my inherent Autumnal Excitement and the good things that are going on around me right now, I feel like my mind is going, “Wait! I just need an effing break from all this positivity. I’d like to look at some things objectively and note that they suck without having to think of a way to make them better or fix them or whatever. Just gimme a second.”

And, because I do believe in the Law of Attraction, I know that a lot of the negativity that’s cropping up has a lot to do with the negativity I’m wasting time thinking about and/or being frustrated over. So, while this Release of Complaints to the Universe could really go either way, I’m hoping that I’m just using this as a means to exorcise these thoughts from my consciousness. Perhaps I’ll counter this with a Counting of Blessings post. That actually sounds like a good way to recharge myself after the following Whineage Dump.

Lessgo:

~ I’ve become completely disillusioned with Facebook in a way that’s beginning to depress me. Admittedly this is mostly my fault for making my frequent visits a daily habit. I sort of justified posting pictures and commenting on people’s pics and stats to myself as me being able to stay in better touch with people I don’t get to see as often as I’d like. And for the most part that’s pretty true.

The thing is, I have 630+ “friends” on there, all of whom I know by name and have had real actual conversations with in real life. (And only one of them is an ex boyfriend!) At first, it’s really a lot of fun to pull a High School Reunion and go look through photo albums to see how one’s 2nd-grade crush has turned out or find out if the prom queen got fat and any of that other stuff that keep people returning to reunions with people from adolescence. (Thus the reason that h.s. reunion attendence has declined in the last couple years.) But after that you just kind of find yourself hanging on to these electronic connections between these people for the sake of manners or some other new internet etiquette bullshit for absolutely no reason. After a while it becomes apparent that laughing at how that middle school bully turned into a fat, ignorant, racist drunk just isn’t as much fun or validating as it used to be and that the only thing that connection succeeds in doing is reminding you why you hated him so much in the first place. Sure, there are instances where I’ve been able to forge new connections with people I wasn’t necessarily friends with in high school and I’ve even been able to have really intellectual conversations with those types of people that have broadened my thinking and challenged my beliefs. But really, who cares? If we all really wanted to be involved in each others’ current lives, wouldn’t we make it a point to do so? We can share internet memes and funny websites with each other via email, we can pick up the phone and call people who live out of town, we can organize parties and arrange reunions without the use of a formal “Event.” Hell, we can even go about our daily activities without requiring commentary from everyone we know.

And before we start weighing in on my inherent hypocrisy, I realize that I’ve bought into the hype as well. I syndicate this blog through my profile and post recent pictures of funny things that I’ve seen or experienced and send friends links to hilarious new websites and take meaningless quizzes about what sort of famous person I’m supposed to be an embodiment of. Like a lot of people, it’s become a bit of a lifestyle if not only a habit. I check it when I get bored, I kill time by commenting on other people’s ramblings. But after a while, it all just seems like perpetuating our own desperate need to be noticed and recognized (much like, say, a blog) where we’re throwing every detail of our lives into a public forum in hopes to prove that we’re still alive! And existing! Look! Here are pictures of me with other friends hanging out in real life!

And the truth of the matter - and the thing that makes me the most depressed - is that it’s apparent that Facebook is sort of like living in a small town; while there are people who are genuinely exciting to be around and may find you exciting to be around as well, mostly there are just a bunch of people you don’t particularly wandering around believing in the great myth of themselves and living in this state of circular nothingness that’s not exciting enough to warrant even an hour’s worth of conversation, let alone constantly updated spot on a News Feed. Same people. Doing the same shit. With the same other people. This time via the Internet.

Aside from the fact that the whole system is kind of boring and trite, I’ve become bothered with my need to participate in this as often as I do and even more bothered by the realization that I can’t just cut myself off from it just yet. I think this may be a weaning, trimming-of-the-fat situation in which I whittle down my friend base to just the people I care enough about to keep in touch with in the Grand Scheme. And then there is the adjusting-of-the-frequency-of-my-visits. I wonder how much I could get done in my day if I didn’t stop by Facebook so often to reply to someone’s commentary or share a funny link with everyone I know. I wonder if I could do everything on my To Do List in a realistic amount of time and I wonder how far I could go about developing this Great Image I have for myself and my life.

I feel like in anyone’s life there are ways to create distractions from our higher purpose and even if I get rid of the habit of Facebook, there will always be something that will invite me to slack off and divert my attention. But I also think that this is a major thing that is also draining a bit of me personally. I gotta do something about that.

~ My haaaaair. It’s not really as awful as I make it sound and, after scrubbing it with Dawn detergent and superduper dandruff shampoo, it’s getting better but it’s still not what I wanted. I hate wasting an autumn on a mediocre hair color.

~ I think I’m going to have to ditch some friends. This is always hard for me because of my weird thank-you-for-noticing-me mentality I developed in jr. high in which I just feel honored that anyone is taking note of me at all (I really should start growing out of that. I’ve had enough therapy. It’s time.) and I should be lucky to have friends at all, so I don’t want to run the few I have off. And really, in the last three years I’ve become much much better at cutting off people who like to perpetuate self-loathing insanity and the resulting drag-everyone-into-it drama that inevitably ensues. (These are the people for whom I used to prepare arguments to defend my reasoning and give them a respectful “This is why I’m cutting you off” speech -complete with bulleted points and relevant examples - only to have them completely disregard it or not get any of it at all. Now there’s just a personal severance.)

The problem at the moment is that the [useta-be] friends I’m having to cut off at the moment hit a little closer to home. I’ve not always been a good friend to a lot (a lot) of people that I consider my friends and I’m incredibly lucky to have received love and forgiveness from many of them, but these days I work really hard on being selfless and giving and nurturing and attentive and all that. I really do. And, again, I’m incredibly lucky to have a handful of really good friends who give me the same - or moreso - in return. (Some of these friends I haven’t even met in person. I know that sounds weird but I’ve had a small group of old message board buddies that I’ve known for about 5 years who have been amazing to me.) But I have a few friends who have been very Take-Take here recently and I think it’s about time I pulled the plug on it. And I’m not the type to just give up on someone but if it’s been a couple years and I’m not getting anywhere and they’re not “getting it” then I don’t really feel bad at all. In fact, with one of the friends I’m shocked at how apathetic I feel about the whole thing.

Every year the anniversary of September 11, 2001 becomes exponentially more heartrending to observe.

Because we do not live in a society that respects forgiveness of monstrous atrocities, I routinely feel obligated to remember the day, to relive the unimaginable terror and confusion of everything that went on in just my little, self-involved 18-year-old mind because I could never begin to absorb what horror wrenched its way across the human consciousness. I remember watching the second plane hit, two weeks into my first semester at college, just as I’d climbed on my treadmill for an early morning run. I remember the whirr of machines in the gym grinding to a halt as the strangers astride each other glanced around as if one of us had some sort of answer. I remember hearing about the Pentagon’s attack moments later. I remember thinking, “This is the end of the world. I am going to die today.”

I remember spending the day in my gym clothes, watching the news and straining to hear live newscasters over the sound of New York screaming. I remember calling people I knew to make sure they were okay, even if they lived in South Carolina. I remember watching strangers leap to their deaths while the whole world gasped. I remember somehow getting through to one of my friends in New York - just a few blocks away from the crumbling towers - and telling her that the rumors about America now being under terrorist rule she and her new classmates were hearing weren’t true. I remember people walking around in a shared glossy-eyed stupor, professors believing their classes were too important to cancel, housemates sobbing over missing relatives, fanatics screaming anti-Islamic threats and this fear that we would all be at war within days. I remember watching the boy down the hall begin to pack his bag, moments after being summoned to his National Guard post. (He never returned to college.) I remember seeing a photo of Osama bin Laden and remembering a 2nd grade friend telling me about Nostradamous’s prediction that had scared me into a monthlong insomnia some ten years prior. I remember the craziest bitch in our whole hallway [who stole my roommate's car and publicly announced her abortion plans to the whole dorm later that year] planning and executing a very peaceful, loving prayer group that night.

(A Side Note: Incidentally, that evening was when the fuckhead boyfriend I insisted on reuniting with over the course of 6 years decided to cheat on me and leave me again. One, because he processes grief pertaining to others well apparently and, Two, because I guess he thought I shouldn’t be allowed to experience heartbreak that had nothing to do with him. So I have all kinds of conflicting emotions going on from that specific time frame.)

I remember weeks of confusion and paranoia and rumors of upcoming attacks. I remember nothing but the recurring images of bloody, dust-covered bodies and matching pillars of smoke appearing on television, in my email, in my dreams. Everyone wanted to talk about how it affected them even though we all knew without anyone having to speak. I remember pages and pages of political cartoons portraying the rolling-up of Uncle Sam’s sleeves, accompanied with vows to seek revenge. I remember watching performance art pieces at my university and being moved to tears, crying in deep embraces with people I’d never see again.

I remember “freedom fries” and xenophobia. I remember everyone being so angry they wanted to blame everyone, anyone. I remember everyone suddenly becoming patriotic again, buying flags, screaming about their proud Americanism. I remember the whole world telling us to rethink our invasion and perhaps not fight ignorant hate with more ignorant hate. I remember nobody listening. I remember all the incredibly angry music that ensued.

I remember everyone being alike in their experiences with fear and trauma and grief and, yet, still somehow remaining incredibly alone.

But the real tragedy of this day lies in the fact that the hate and fear planted then has only grown and flourished in the years since, leaking out so casually and subtlely that we have accepted it into our daily lives, perpetuated and taught it to our children and advocated it to each other. We keep insisting that we “Never Forget!” but we still have never brought anyone to justice for any of it and have, instead, busied ourselves with meaningless arguments amongst ourselves over fictititious wars as we have lost even more of our hard-working people to what our president himself even admitted was a complete lie. Even those of us who have no power to change anything about our nation’s happenings have spent years hating these faceless demons, these other countries, our authorities, each other. Idiotic political pundits have gone on the air to insult the widows and surviving family members of those who were horrifically, brutally murdered on September 11 and the date as a colloquialism has become fodder for casual, rating-boosting heated debates amongst trivial, shock-value driven commentators of no importance and perpetuated anger amongst the American public instead of remaining a notation for a solemn day of loss and horror. We have used this event to turn on each other, to make enemies of the people we live among, to scream violent, hateful words at entire groups of people who are innocent as individuals. Our hatred has allowed us to justify the invasion of personal privacies, the arrogant need to sacrifice young men and women, and the unfortunate success of Toby Keith. Filled with hatred and unable to hold any specific person accountable, we have become viciously spiteful of each other, unbudging in our ignorant prejudice of other cultures, and willing to murder each other over the same diversities that, a mere decade ago were what made us proud to be American in the first place.

These emotions are the same anger and the very hatred that the terrorists thrived on and intended to plant within us during their insane, evil mission. And yet, even today, mentioning the notion of forgiveness is seen as inhumane, unfeeling and particularly disturbing to the average American.

We are still expected to hate and fear. We encourage each other to remember the pain and terror and draw strength and fuel for more wrath from it. We still scream about seeking revenge. We loudly cheer when we destroy anyone we loosely associate with these events in our desperate, ongoing search for vengeance. In the eight years since those attacks, we have not seen another like it and yet we are still just as wrathful as we were in the weeks following. We are proud to perpetuate this fear and hate in the name of “patriotism”, as though being consumed with loathing for people who are no longer alive to know us is somehow serving them justice.

We, alone, are responsible for carrying the hatred of the terrorists in our hearts. And until we realize and relinquish that, we will never find the peace and freedom we desire.

Once upon a time, many years ago, there was a Boy who loved me very very much. In fact, this particular Boy loved me more passionately, with more unabashed zeal, attentiveness and dedication than any other man in my life ever did, right up until three years ago. This superior love far outweighed anything I’d ever experienced, including that of The Other Guy I was currently in a long-term relationship with.

It all started out very harmlessly, as these things always do. We went to tiny local concerts together and made mix tapes and wrote postcards for each other when we were apart during the summer and there was nothing romantic about it or evident of any sort of ulterior motive. We both had significant others that we loved and we talked about them regularly, although more often than not his shared anecdotes were more pleasant than mine as I was prone to crying on his shoulder, sobbing about how The Other Guy had lied to me again or had been overheard talking badly about me or was just not giving me what I wanted in general. Over time, however, his words of encouragement and reassurance became more intimate than friendly and I found that mine were following suit. Suddenly, we realized we were in the throes of very deep, very unexpected emotions.

Soon, we were spending even more time together and flirting with the idea of “where this could go” and really becoming overwhelmed with emotion and excitement of new love. And then he pulled out the stops and broke it off with his girlfriend to offer himself to me exclusively. On my birthday that year, he lined all 10 miles of the major highway route to our school with signs that said “Happy Birthday, Elle!” and planted a banner in the front with the same message. He stuffed 20 empty glass bottles with varied hand-written loveletters and gave them to me for Valentine’s Day. He adored my family, he came around whenever he could, he always kept up with how I was feeling, what I needed, what I would need… he was everything I had ever wanted and I was enamored with him.

And there wasn’t much not to like, really. He was one of those kids who came from a rough upbringing and somehow beat the snot out of the status quo. He was more determined and driven than any single person I’ve ever met to this day but, even more importantly, he kept about him this constant attitude of optimism and joy. He was a spiritual guy who always kept that at the top of his list, even though there was no parental figure holding a gun to his head to do so (This was a new concept to me.) and he was proud of that aspect of himself. He even took me to my first and only Christmas Eve Midnight Mass. He was open-minded, healthy, successful, friendly, joyful, spiritual, ambitious, creative, resilient… the list could go on.

The problem, of course, was that I was an emotional wreck of biblical, Jericho-like proportions. Usually, these stories have that pathetic theme: “Girls only want bad guys and nice guys finish last.” but this time it doesn’t apply at all, surprisingly. The truth was that I’d always wanted to be with someone like him; who doesn’t? And, specifically, I wanted him. But I - being submerged and brainwashed with self-loathing and general desperate insecurity - was positive that I was not deserving of this sort of happiness, that somehow I was going to screw it all up and only be reminded of how undeserving I was in the aftermath.

And me, never being one to pass up the opportunity to fulfill a personal prophecy, went ahead and did just that.

(WARNING: This is where the Crazy kicks in. Also, the Pathetic. I sound like a complete, psycho-ex-girlfriend-stalker-type loon from here on out. Just be forewarned.)

So, in unbelievably predictable fashion, I cowardly sprinted back to The Other Guy in the “safe” dysfunctional relationship I was familiar and “comfortable” within. (For those of you who haven’t spent years in therapy and/or 12-step meetings, this is textbook codependent/addict behavior. The more you knooow.) My heart ached as the Boy kept coaxing me to come with him and let him make me happy after I’d told him my decision, but once I’d finally settled on my choice, I transformed into something very very sinister and hideous.

From where I sit now I can only come up with one theory as to how my mind possibly justified my behavior immediately after this, but that doesn’t make it any less excusable or blatantly insane. I guess because I was genuinely ruled by the staunch belief that I was worthless, unimportant and undesirable, my mind concluded that anyone who would bother to try to romance me was a moron. I’ve discussed it before, but for years I had a very Eeyore vernacular, always thanking people for paying attention to me or thinking of me and always wondering why in hell I was included in any sort of social engagements at all. When I started dating The Other Guy in my earlier high school years I was just amazed that any male would find me desirable at all, so I settled for that and assumed that I was lucky to have even obtained that much. So, when I see the Boy continuing to go out of his way to make me feel wonderful and show me his affection and shower me with adulation, I start to think there must be something wrong with him.

Soon, I’m treating the Boy like a pathetic, lost puppy who is intent on over-romanticizing everything and must be desperate to still be pursuing me. I start mocking him and emasculating him, both to our mutual friends and to his face. I ignore his calls, laugh at his attempts to talk to me like a concerned friend, and try desperately to swat away any remaining emotions I may be experiencing.

Jesus Christ, it just seems so arrogant and ridiculous from where I am now… anyway.

When we got to college a number of months later, I found myself feeling remorseful and missing his company but, still tumbling down a slope of self-destruction, my attempts at apologies were always overshadowed by my desperate loneliness and my hopes that maybe he’d come back and try to rescue me again. Any formal apologies I initiated always turned into a weepy, clingy drama fest in which I would be torn between desire and guilt while he would just be trying to figure out what the hell he could do to escape without causing me to implode. Naturally, his resistence in these conversations translated through my insecurity as blatant rejection and sent me into even more despair. (Like I said: I. Was. In. Sane.)

Honestly, I just thank God he had the integrity and self-assuredness to get the hell away from me instead of letting me drag him into a quagmire of Crazy. It’s one of those things that’s rather admirable about him.

Anyway, I left that college after I hit Rock Bottom: Episode I in 2003. We kept in touch here and there but it was always kind of strange and stilted. Frankly, I was so amazed that he’d waste any more time talking to me at all that I didn’t care what our meetings were like, but I always felt that he saw me as some sort of charity effort and I fought not to loathe myself for that.

Presently, we’re both married to people we’re insane about. All he ever wanted was to find someone to love, get married, and start a family and, like with everything else in his life, he did exactly that right after he graduated college. We speak when we can, although conversations are always in that cordial, scripted, “Hi, how are you, I’m doing well, it’s good to hear from you.” kind of language you use on loose acquaintences and your parents’ friends. While I know there will never be any more singing or giggling or sharing absurdities, I am quietly heartbroken at the knowledge that there will never be any reminiscience - happy or otherwise - between us and the realization that this is entirely my fault.

I found myself thinking about all of this after I recently came across a friendly “Hi, how are you…” message from him in my inbox from many months ago. And I realized that, even after all these years of real, intense apologies that I’ve had to issue to pretty much everyone I’d ever spoken to before I got sober, I never bothered to give him one. Yeah, there were a half-dozen of those drunken, blubbering apology sessions I previously mentioned but I’m positive those couldn’t have been taken seriously.

So, after 8 years I sat down and wrote him a letter in which I sincerely apologize as a sober, [mostly] sane, self-realized adult. Truthfully, I really hate doing that sort of thing after all this time because it kind of makes me look like some obsessive freak who can’t let things go and needs to rehash shit that other people have obviously laid to rest and gotten over. Most of the time I feel like I’d be better off just leaving it alone. And heaven forbid if this somehow gets misconstrued as me trying to instigate trouble or something else.

But, as per my Twelve Step practice, I know it’s something I’m responsible for and, even if I never hear from him ever again, he deserves to hear at least one sober, sincere apology from me. And frankly, if I went to my grave knowing that I didn’t grow a pair and give that to him, I’d never rest peacefully.

However, THIS? THIS is what we should be talking about in those government-funded D.A.R.E. programs. “Hey kids, you shouldn’t drink because one day you’re going to have to look at all the carnage in your rearview, pull a U-ey and clean it all up.”

I’ve been kind of freaking out about the Bear’s development as of late. My parents insist that I could name letters and numbers when they were pointed to by the time I was 18 months (apparently my dad used to place bets with his friends as to whether or not I could and, when they stood there slack-jawed he got to chuckle and remind them that they now owed him a beer) and I have friends who tell me their siblings could read by the age of 2. Meanwhile, my daughter is still barely making out words and mostly sticking to the same 5-8. Although she is adopting a new word every other day or so, she seems to easily forget them the next time I bring them up.

Naturally, this sends me into that whole worrisome insecurity I’ve transferred from my lovelife - where it is no longer necessary - and over to my parenting. Am I not letting her socialize enough? Maybe we watch too much TV! Should we be reading more? Do I need to drill her on letters and numbers? Is she going to be behind when she starts preschool? Maybe I’m being a terrible mother. I need to do more reading about this age; I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Maybe all the accomplishments of hers that I’m impressed with are months overdue! Should I have done that whole sign language for babies thing even though I heard it stunts their verbal progress? Oh God, why can’t I do anything with competence!?

And yeah, I know a lot of moms say that kids just naturally do things on their own time but there have been reports of kids who were locked in basements and such that never developed at all, so clearly that theory is bunk. And I’m not leaving my kid solitary confinement all day (or ever) but what if her expanding brain is just turning to mush because it’s not stimulated enough? Again: Oh God, why can’t I do anything with solid, consistent competence?!

So I’ve spent the better part of the day planted in front of the computer reading parenting resources on Parents.com and Disney’s parenting site. (I really should’ve started this earlier because I need to start introducing more vegetables into her diet and I have no idea how to deal with these tantrums she’s started throwing and I really have no clue as to when to transfer her to a normal bed or when to start potty training. ::sigh::) As it turns out, she’s right on track, despite what I’m hearing about these freakishly brainy kids who will probably turn out to be socially stunted like savants and prodigies always seem to be.

In fact, there are a few things she’s already doing preemptively, which is really exciting for someone who’s parenting without any sort of guidebook. It’s funny with kids because they just start doing something and you don’t even really notice or recognize it as a milestone until someone points it out to you. A lot of times when I was reading about her anticipated monthly accomplishments I found myself going, “Oh, well yeah, she’s been doing that for a while.” She’s been running and kicking for a few months now, she’s putting together small phrases (”It’s HOT!”, “Hi Kitties!” and “Hey doggie!” being her favorites), she’s sorting things by color, she’s able to recognize things even when in different forms, she turns letters and text right-side-up when she grabs a book (even when there are no pictures) and she’s doing a few other things that really aren’t due until later in the year.

Hunh.

So basically, what I learned is that, through absolutely no deliberate action on my part and no idea as to what I’m doing, I’m managing to not only keep my child up to par, but even enabling her to surpass the average. Um, yay me? I’m sure when this sort of thing is viewed by psychologists, they’d say that it has something to do with the individualized attention she’s been getting but I’m genuinely positive I’ve had nothing to do with this at all. All I do is play along with her and redirect her when she’s getting into something potentially hazardous. That’s it. No Montessori technique, no Dr. Spock recommendations, no playgroup-discussed methods. Nada. And it seems to be working.

And I am perfectly happy with continuing this lifestyle. After all, I want what’s best for my child.

Maybe I’ll write a book about it and coin “The Slacker Parent Method” (much different from the book “Slacker Mom” which was so horrible I couldn’t even finish it. The woman who wrote that wasn’t a slacker so much as a coldhearted, selfish bitch who probably should never have procreated in the first place. I want to start a therapy fund for her poor kids, especially knowing that this woman’s book sales have inevitably vindicated her atrociously apathetic attitude. ::shudder:: They’ve got a long road ahead of them.) I could become another “child expert” (heh… what a bullshit job title… kinda like “life coach”) and show up on panels and stuff. This could be very lucrative.

*Copyright pending

I’ve about had it with people justifying crappy art by saying that “It’s Christian!” And frankly, if I was God, I’d be a little miffed that my advocates were out there making atrocious music and writing terrible books after all the stuff I’ve given them, but I guess he really looks at it like those crappy finger-paintings kids bring to their parents…

This is not to say that everyone who publicly sings or writes or speaks about loving God is automatically awful, by the way. Matisyahu might be one of the most revolutionary musicians to emerge in the last ten years and that guy hasn’t changed a thing about his orthodox Judaism and writes songs exclusively about that. And rocks the music scene. Most of the time when people get sober their music just goes down the crapper (Aerosmith, Coltrane) but Johnny Lang is out there rocking it and putting on a better show than ever. It’s really amazing. And although I never ever would’ve picked it up, “The Shack” was surprisingly moving and thought-provoking, (even though it bordered on brain-washy once or twice.) And I think Christopher Moore’s “Lamb…” is the best book about Jesus ever written, if not one of the best books ever written. (YOU MUST READ IT. Even if you never want to have anything to do with Jesus and think his followers suck. Seriously, it’s awesome. Not preachy, not brain-washy. Just fun. Promise.) People have been moved to do great works of art in any genre in the name of God for thousands of years so don’t think I’m railing on that at all; I strive to be God-inspired in what I do, too.

HOWEVER, if I had a dollar for every person that told me “He’s a Christian musician/writer/comedian, but he’s actually really good!” I’d literally have a couple grand in savings. And I don’t get why people don’t understand that that sort of recommendation is not only ridiculous and cliche but will only result in repelling me further.

The worst thing is how people can produce genuinely terrible work and the Bible-thumping crowd will eat it up and then judge people who don’t like it as people who must be anti-Jesus. For example, I picked up a book last weekend called “90 Minutes in Heaven” that I’d heard a lot about from a few church-goers I knew. And it. Was. AWFUL. I mean, the story might’ve been okay (I couldn’t get through the whole book) but the author had a ghostwriter and even then the book read as though written by a 13-year-old. And I say “13″ specifically because all of his points were redundant, paragraphs were repeated ad nauseum without bothering to rephrase them at all and he loooooved making those melodramatic, blunt sentences that signal truth and transition at the end of every subsection. And somehow he managed to make the story drag through redundancy even though the book was 140 pages.
Bad. Badbadbad. Even the family members I talked to who had read it admitted that they couldn’t get through it because the writing was abysmal. And yet, this book has sold millions upon millions of copies while other, actually brilliant novels have sat gathering dust on shelves. It’s bullshit.

I remember a few years ago I attended a church that did those contemporary “rock” services that were just dreadful. When I told one of my acquaintences that the music made me want to take a drill to my ears she looked at me as though I’d said, “Jesus can go screw himself.” and then made it a point to never speak to me again. Yeah, I get that this makes her a loser of epic proportions but seriously? We’re judging people on what sort of music they listen to now? I guess that goes back to the whole church mentality of “YOUMUSTAGREEWITHEVERYTHINGWESAYORYOU’REDAMNEDTOHELL!!” that so many people don’t realize is optional.

But when I worship, it shouldn’t feel like a chore. I shouldn’t be made to sing boring, soulless songs that move me in no way, (this is why I think we should all sing gospel music exclusively. And not that bland, WASPel that they advertise collections of on the Weather Channel, but real, African-American written, raucous, joyful, 20-minutes-per-song gospel.) I shouldn’t be forced to listen to crappy comedians who rely on outdated cliches and the fact that they’re syndicated through churches to keep their careers alive, I shouldn’t have to read godawful literature that’s just some talentless moron’s way of making money off blind followers. I want to be moved. I want to feel God and feel life and feel joyful for all of it. (And no, Rick Warren’s “Purpose Driven Life” drivel didn’t even start to budge me, so don’t throw that crap in my face… again…)

I just don’t get why people think that you can’t have genuine, legitimate, innovative, fun art and still be considered divinely guided. And I’m tired of watching terrible artists find relative success just because they’ve learned how to manipulate the Bible Thumpers demographic. And I’m really reeeally tired of people feeling like they have to pray for me and worry for my soul because all but 4 contemporary Christian musicians suuuuuuck.

I’ve often heard and have grown to believe that the best way to make God laugh is to make plans. Apparently, I needed a refresher course.

Since the Bear is adamant about spending as much time as possible outdoors, I thought I’d change up the scenery and take her out to a local park while my hubs did some stuff around the house. It was mostly cloudy with a generous amount of breaks which was great because it meant we could spend the middle of the day outside without burning alive.

So we get down to the Kiwanis Family Park, one of our city’s beautiful playgrounds with big fields and running trails and grills and the whole bit.

Chloe is ecstatic and tears off at a dead run (which only translated as an effortless trot for me) and flailing her arms while screaming “WHEEEE!” I decided to take her on one of the trails as she’s not spent much time in wooded areas. She couldn’t have been more excited and, in the first few minutes she’d already picked up the words “creek” and “bridge”.

We’re hiking along and Chloe is loving every minute of it, pointing at birds, scampering down the trail, waving to every person that passes. I try to get her to turn off onto the paths that would lead us back to the starting point, but every time she screamed and cried, pulling my arm to let her take the long route.

Although I knew it was a .75 mile trail, I kind of shrugged and laughed about it thinking, “Well, I guess the worst that could happen is that she gets exhausted and I have to carry her back.” Plus, we were still around people in that I could see houses and major roads through the trees, so if we were bitten by a snake or something awful, we wouldn’t be far from rescue.

We get to the end of the trail and I have to pick Chloe up, screaming and kicking, to get her to turn around and go back the way we came. After a few minutes she gave up the fight and we were off. About five minutes in at Chloe-walking-speed, we started to feel a little bit of light rain but were under a thick canopy of trees, so Chloe really enjoyed it. As we walked, the rain gradually got a tiny bit heavier and I was still chucking to myself, thinking, “Ah man, we’re going to get so wet.” But still, Chloe was enjoying herself and even though I’d picked up the pace and was keeping us toward the edge of the path for more cover, we were having a good time.

AND THEN THE EFFING BOTTOM FELL OUT.

Regardless of how long this summer storm was going to last, I knew Chloe would only find heavy raindrops pounding her body for a few minutes, so I scooped her up and began to run while yelling, “Whee!!” Now, I think it’s important to note that, because I was prepared for a leisurely day at the park, I was wearing a skimpy camisole, a flowing hippie skirt, and cheap leather sandals that I’ve had for a few years and have completely worn the tread off of. Also, I’d left the diaper bag back in the car but was hauling around my big leather purse with my wallet, keys, camera, juice boxes, etc. Still, though, we were giggling and I was kind of enrapt with how funny this all was and what a ridiculous story we’d have when we got home.

But about five minutes up the road, the rain somehow increased to the point where we couldn’t see ten feet in front of us and Chloe became hysterical. The fact that I haven’t been exercising recently was already a factor, but add to that the fact that I’m carrying an extra 25 lbs on one arm and trying to run in sandals in such a way that I don’t fall and hurt both of us, and I was working harder than I believe I have in the last ten years.

I was torn between trying to run fast and trying to keep my balance while soothing Chloe’s terrified screams so the .65 mile I was running took literally 10 minutes to cover (I could easily walk a mile in that on a normal day.) And then, just as I breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude upon seeing the clearing up ahead, a bolt of lightning hit a tree less than a mile away (we saw it as we were leaving the park later on) and elevated our level of panic to outright terror. There hadn’t been any signs of lightning before that moment so, even though we were soaking and Chloe was really upset, I was safe in the knowledge that we weren’t in real danger. When that was snatched away, my adrenaline kicked in and I somehow sprinted out of the woods, into the clearing, and another 200 yards to the nearest shelter.

Just as I hit the slick floor of the shelter, my treadless shoes became worthless and I hit my knee harder than I think it’s ever been. However, because of my wildly flying hormones and emotions, I didn’t even notice it until a few hours later. As a few dry families watched, I sat on the floor right at the edge, rocking and soothing Chloe as best as I could while she wailed and shivered.

Even though the shelter was lying elevated on a hill, it began to flood and I realized I was sitting in a slowly spreading puddle. I moved us to one of the picnic tables and kept rocking and clutching the Bear. I was terrified she’d get hypothermia or pneumonia or something and it’s honestly the first time that she’s screamed in public and I did not give a shit what anyone else was thinking, although I hardly think that’s praiseworthy or unnatural given the circumstances.

After about ten minutes, I noticed one of the men in another family come running back from their car, soaking and clutching a bag. He handed it off and his wife and her daughter walked over and handed me a clean, dry set of little boy’s clothes and a new diaper. As I tried to tell her how much I appreciated it, it became obvious that she spoke no English at all and I was reduced to pitiful, broken Spanish and an idiotic redundancy of “Gracias”es. I was overwhelmed with gratitude and, to be honest, as I’m writing this, my eyes are welling up with tears, (although that could be the residual effects of the day messing with my emotions.) While I changed an increasingly chilled and frightened Bear, the woman calmly stabilized Chloe as her daughter spoke softly to her and tried to get her to smile. Realizing that I couldn’t hold the Bear up to my chest to warm her as my clothes were soaking, the woman made a gesture to ask permission and, after I nodded, she picked Chloe up and held her for a few minutes. When Chloe finally settled a bit, we sat her down and I became pathetic with gratitude, probably driving the woman insane with my relentless thanks. She held up a hand to tell me it was no problem but ran back over to her purse and handed me a small bottle of Bio Salud!, a revolutionary Mexican dairy beverage that is loaded with live cultures and nutrients. Suffice to say, I was floored.

After Chloe calmed down, she went back to her normal self, sitting beside me while I wrung out my skirt a few dozen times and babbling and pointing to the rain and smiling at me with wonder. I even took the opportunity to get a few pics, because I’m pathetic and thought I should have evidence of the story when I tell her one day.

The rain died down and the woman and her family stood up to leave. Even though I hated the idea of stripping Chloe of warm clothes, I knew we had some clean ones in the car about 200-ish yards away and could make it work if we had to. I made feeble gestures to tell the woman that she could have her son’s clothes back but she adamantly shook her head and patted me on the back with one of those “knowing mother” smiles.

It took me about an hour after we left the park to settle down and realize how exhausted I was. I just felt deflated after the intensity of the emotions plus the unrehearsed running.

I’m sure, though, that this is one of those days I’ll remember. Not to oversentimentalize things but the culmination of the fear that was so easily diffused by one family’s simple generosity made the whole experience remarkable. I know, it’s not like I was a refugee taken in by strangers, but still the lessons here are twofold:

1) ALWAYS prepare for the worst when out with children. Al. Ways.
2) Don’t be so cowardly or cynical as to doubt the existence of real, good people, no matter how much you see evidence to prove otherwise.

I like to casually keep an eye out to see what sort of people are paying attention to me. That may sound incredibly narcissistic but hear me out. I don’t do it out of the need to build myself up or float my confidence on the approval/attention of others or anything codependent or self-loathing in that vein. For me, it’s really just a great source of humor and brings me a good deal of amusement.

For example, I’ve learned that, avoid them or not, there are still some politics that function within Facebook relationships of any kind, apparently. (Gross.) A few months ago, I received a “friend request” from a guy who’s lusted after been a pathetic disciple of been friends with one of my exes for years. Intrigued, I “friended” him but never checked out his profile (he has the personality of a tub of mayonnaise; what’s to learn?) or spoke to him, etc. Noticeably, within a few weeks, he’d “unfriended.” Heh. Interesting.

(To be frank, this particular ex has had a lot of strangeness surrounding him and his Facebook interactions with me, which I find even more hilarious since we’re not “friends” and I never respond to him anymore at all. - Brody, this may sound familiar :::ah-wink!::: - However, because I legitimately don’t care and this person is a separate, extreme case from this entry’s intended thesis altogether, I’m not going to bother delving in. I will say that I am proud of myself, though, for being at a place where it doesn’t anger or bother me anymore. It’s just more vindication and amusement on my behalf. Whee! I’m petty!)

I especially love the “Spy” feature on this WordPress app I have to support this here blog, which I use from time to time to see, you know, who my readers are, where they’re coming from, what Google searches brought them here, etc. (Unfortunately, a huge fraction of my daily hits come from the one post I did about sexy posters. ::sigh:: That one may be coming down.) I don’t use this feature daily or even weekly, but I do enjoy watching my reader base grow and even seeing familiar IP addresses of old friends who only drop me a line every couple months but still take the time to read. (I hope you guys don’t mind me knowing you’re out there.)

But there are a handful of readers that bring me incredible amusement. (Don’t feel embarrassed; nobody else knows you’re here.) There are a few that I see who have gone out of their way yyeeeaars ago (like, 8-12, depending on the person) to tell me that they loathe me and hope I die a horrible, painful death who are still bothering to sniff around. There are others with whom I’ve had lesser relationship intensity that I haven’t spoken to or seen in years who also peruse my painfully self-indulgent ramblings. What’s even more amusing is the frequency of some of these obscure, random acquaintances’ visits and their apparent, intent interest in my day-to-day. While some people may find a former adolescent bully’s daily interest in their life perturbing or frightening, it really just gives me a rush of gloating amusement, especially when I consider that I genuinely don’t give a shit the other way around. (Besides, I’m never scared of Crazy anymore. Perhaps because I arrogantly suppose I can outCrazy anyone, but mostly because it’s not foreign territory to me like it is with most people.) (Oh, and thank you, again, therapy!)

Anyway, not that the notion didn’t exist before the Internet, but it’s become more evident to me as I grow older and technology improves that indeed, all people - regardless of their roles or illusion of sanity - are strange.
To put it lightly.

And funnily, this makes me feel not just “not alone”, but somewhat confident and/or proud in the idea that, even though I’m admittedly strange-bordering-on-occasional-Crazy, I’m not putting up any false fronts about it.

I am severely, noticeably awkward.
And not in a way I know how to classify.

A lot of people say that about themselves, mostly because “awkward” has somewhat become a trendy form of humor these days like in “The Office” with the painfully social ineptitude of those characters or the bumbling awkwardness of Lemon on “30 Rock.” In this new post-technological society where nerds are ruling the world, “awkward” has suddenly become a mainstream form of “genius” entertainment, bringing back styles similar to those created by Andy Kaufman.

There’s the cool awkward where a cute girl is klutzy or emotionally crippled in some adorable, faux-needy way.
I’m not that.

Then there’s the “nerd” awkward where the social ineptitude leaks over from adolescence into the real world and LARPers and Trekkies still think it’s important to violently argue about Asimov’s theories. (By the way, it’s weird how geeks across the planet have the same awkward speech cadences and ticks, or how they have identical gestures or facial quirks… it’s like a gene.)

That’s not me, either.

There’s the random-humor-and-obscure-loser-reference awkward that Andy Samberg and the Lonely Island guys like to play with.

Not me.

And then the painfully-insecure-overcompensating-Michael-Scott-epic-fail type of awkward.

Ehh… Used to be me. Then I stopped drinking, so not so much anymore.

And there are countless other subcategories that aren’t really publicly illustrated but are definitely noticeable to the average person. There’s the fat-girl-lost-a-lot-of-weight-and-doesn’t-know-she’s-hot-so-still-acting-self-loathing-and-sell-outty awkward. There’s the 40-year-old-math-teacher-divorcee-trying-to-reclaim-her-youth awkward. There’s obligatory-creepy-lecherous-perv awkward. There’s the-gay-guy-trying-to-cling-onto-the-coatrack-in-the-closet-even-though-everyone-KNOWS awkward. The list could go on forever.

Again, none of these are my type of awkward.

I’ve known about my type of awkward since I was little and started listening to my deeper-than-everyone voice on my parents’ tape recorder. I noticed that my cheeks encompassed a majority of my face and the corners of my mouth stick together when I’m talking, which has caused more than one person to remark, “You remind me a lot of Melissa Joan Hart.” (…awesome…) My nose spreads endlessly across my face like a tribute to Bill Cosby, my arms have always looked like turkey legs even at the peak of my weight-training regimen, I have more facial hair than anyone who isn’t Italian should legally have and for whatever reason, I’ve always been at the very least a leeeetle heavier than my doctor says I should be.

And that’s just the physical stuff. I literally can’t leave any social situation without having at least one moment I look back on and think, “Why in the hell did I do/say/wear that?! What the eff is wrong with me!?” Fortunately, these actions are never part of a major disagreement or conflict (God blesses me with good judgment and the ability to only say what I mean during those moments) but the other 96% of my life is fair game for my social uselessness. Actually, the only place I don’t immediately flinch at my actions in retrospect is in text and I accredit that to my ability to edit. This same questioning-of-actions is constant and is heightened when I revisit old performances or photos or memories of defunct relationships or any era when I was really reeeeaally dysfunctional and/or inebriated. Suffice to say, there’s a lot of forehead slapping involved in my self-analysis.

And honestly? Yes, I am always amazed that I’m able to have/keep better-than-amazing friends and even more amazed that I’ve ever been able to trick anyone into finding me attractive. That’s the truth.

Don’t get me wrong here. When I say that I’m awkward, this is not me being self-depreciative or loathing, if you can believe that. I’m not saying I’m socially inept or incapable of any sort of productive, enjoyable existence. And I’m definitely not saying that I don’t have any redeeming qualities about myself, physically or otherwise. I’m really just saying that even after spending years upon years watching myself and finding that, even after years of therapy and tankerloads of introspection, the Awkward is the one thing that remains constant. It’s mine to keep, apparently.

The problem with having recognized my awkwardness is that, unlike performers like Rachel Dratch or Chris Farley who seized their awkwardness and entertained the masses with it, I have no idea how to make any of my Awkward appealing or humorous… or if it’s even possible. At all.

Even though I worked a lot of the “Who am I?”s and the “What the hell is going on with me?”s out in my younger years, I’ve come to realize that I still waste a LOT of time grappling with this ongoing resistance to the ultimate notion that I’m a bit left of center. I still play dress up and take pictures of myself to try to convince myself that I’m extraordinarily attractive when really, even the one usable photo out of every 200 that I take is only satisfactory. I still fling as much of myself “out there” as I possibly can even if I have absolutely nothing informed or relevant to bring to any table at which I may be aiming. I recognize that I did a lot more of that in my adolescence, which is really strange considering how much I haaated myself. You would think that someone who was completely convinced she was a hideous moron would hide under a rock but for some reason, I still enjoyed being a bit rogue and outspoken when I could… I know; it doesn’t make any sense to me, either.

Now, though, I don’t have all the disgust and hate for myself that trails around with me through all my actions, so I’m really just looking at myself objectively. I’m awkward, not ever going to fit into some battleax role, nor am I ever going to be a lusty object of desire. And, despite all my flailing idiocy, I’m 99.9% sure that I’m always going to slide into average obscurity with the rest of the masses. That’s just how it is and I’ve become happy with that. (And yes, for the record, I do blame this celebrity-crazed society of ours for trying to convince everyone that if they aren’t wildly famous or publicly lauded then they aren’t worthwhile. It’s all lies that I’m happy to avoid.)

However, the underlying question that keeps nagging at me after all these conclusions is simply “Where the hell does that put me?”

What does my type of Awkward qualify me for? Where would my Awkward be best utilized? How can I get that to work for me? How do I even start figuring all that out?