Dear Allison,
At church today, an elderly woman stood during the “Joys and Sorrows”-sharing part of the service to tell the community about her sorrow, which was that she was unable to be by her “best friend in the world’s” side as her friend’s life was coming to a close on the other side of the country. She told us this, then took a moment to look to the side before blurting, “…I don’t know what I can do… or what I’m going to do…” and then turning to light a candle. Meanwhile, I buried my face in my hands to hide my now-convulsive sobs; I wanted nothing more than to intercept the woman with an embrace as she made her way, deflated and burdened, to her seat. Without thinking it, I realized that that woman may one day be me and I may be talking about you.
And then I thought, “God, I hope I die before Allison does so I never have to live without her.”
And then I remembered how much you fucking loathe that Winnie the Pooh quote about him wanting his friend to die a day after him so he doesn’t have to live without him and what a selfish douchenozzle move that is to wish on a friend – that they’d spend their last day in total misery because their BFF just died AND they’re slowly dying. And then I started giggling about how that sort of thing pisses you off enough to make one of your rare rants about it.

We met ten years ago to this week, by the way.

I’m sure you’ve realized in retrospect that you met me at the exact moment I reached the precipice of my freefall into unfuckingimaginable insanity/destruction after years of a slow-but-consistent descent in prologue. Really, the fact that we were still friends within a year of meeting each other is miraculous in itself because HolyLordballs, was I busy losing my damned mind.

I have a confession I never actually verbalized to you: you were my Bright Spot then. I remember meeting you and going to your dorm room and seeing this art that you’d created just because you wanted to make a prettier space for yourself (wha?! I didn’t know people did that! I thought people made art to show it off to each other or because their art teacher assigned it or because they wanted to submit it to something and get “famous”) and you sang songs that you’d written for your own amusement and you were this completely self-actualized, energetic being in a world of idiots (read: me) who were flailing around trying to leech energy off anything they thought was “cool” or “important” at the time and it was an unbelievable state of mind to encounter from where I was. Because, most of the time, when there’s someone who is somehow “above” the mentality of their peers, he or she has to have some sort of following or need to declare their mental/spiritual/artistic superiority to everyone else – especially if that person has been recently liberated from the confines of high school. But not you, dude. You just sort of did what you did and you liked what you liked and you were completely oblivious to the fact that you weren’t just “different”, but really, genuinely, special. (And not “special” like our generation’s everybody’s-special-in-their-own-snowflake-way “special”, but special like holy-shit-she’s-going-to-change-lives-and-do-shit-that-bends-reality special.) I’m not saying that either one of us knew what, exactly, you were supposed to do with all that “special”-ness at that point in the game and, you know, you’ve had a bit of a learning process with it, but I still knew then. Even though at the time, I was busy being either a)completely obliterated or b)completely absorbed in that disgustingly destructive relationship I was enamored with, I still recognized the energy we had together, even when people around us did not. (And still don’t, I think. I’m okay in the idea that we confuse people, though.)

ANYWAY. I don’t wanna bore you with a wordy scrapbook of memories ’cause, you know, we’ve talked about them to a masturbatory degree. (The only people who love talking about how awesome their situation is more than we do are Burning Man attendees…)
But, after a decade, I’m convinced that there has to be something Bigger going on here than two weirdos having befriended each other in a bullshit theater class. (Seriously. That class was buuuulllshiiiit. “Constructive Rest Position”? Learning to tremble? Bite my ass, Jermaine.)

You loved me when I hated myself so much I literally tried to murder myself. You have loved me when I let my demons reject you from my life. You have had that same delusional faith in me even when my life was nothing more than rolling out of my bed at my parents’ house and driving to the technical college up the road in my pajamas day after day because I’d failed at literally everything else. When I told you I was pregnant by some dude I’d been dating for 3 months, (less than a year after my second mental hospitalization, ohbytheway) your immediate response was to exclaim “CONGRATULATIONS!” and send me a bouquet of my favorite flower (lilies) the next morning, even though everyone else around me provided me with silence and fear for the next month. You have cheered me on from the sidelines, even when you were literally my only enthusiastic fan and you have never once shown any doubt that I wasn’t the person you’ve been trying to convince me that I am, even though I’ve done things to contradict that hypothesis many, many times.

Even though the noises in my mind sometimes get too loud for me to focus, I want you to know that I have never stopped loving you just as much. I cried every night you slept in the hospital and, aching with powerlessness, leapt at the chance to cram all your necessities (read: record player, paints) into my Jeep from Greensboro to Charlotte. I blew all my money from that coffee-shop job of mine for those monthly (sometimes fortnightly) treks up to Asheville to see you and I never once hesitated to plaster your art all over my dwelling space the minute it was given, in any form. I made sure to practice singing along to the more obscure PJ songs so I’d know all the words for the “next time” we got to see them perform (it totally worked!) I have always continued to talk to Chloe about you and show her pictures so she wouldn’t forget her godmother between the times she got to see you.

But I am, by no means, unaware that I’ve dropped the ball a lot and, when looking at this friendship and identifying its role within my life from this vantage point, I can’t help but feel the deepest regrets for the times I’ve let you down – you more than with anyone else I’ve ever disappointed. (Don’t tell my mom.) Dismissing your declining health and its symptoms (and understandable insecurity of those symptoms that compounded them) as “selfishness”, I pulled myself away from you and cut you off completely, in the name of “self-preservation”, instead of bothering to find out what, exactly, was at the root of your uncharacteristic actions. In my heart, I knew better, Allison; I know you better than to assume you’re just another brainless, unaware victim of self-absorbed-twentysomething-ism… why didn’t I do more? Why didn’t I stop to look deeper? Why didn’t I at least recognize that you weren’t being yourself – that something was obviously hurting you? I don’t know, Allison. I’ve spent hours of time wondering to myself what the hell kind of mental state I could’ve let myself get to in which I would completely ignore the “you” I inherently know and then regard your disease as your Self so much that I’d turn my back on you entirely. This time spent has only caused me insufferable pain – pain that worsens when I contrast my actions with the ones you’ve made when the roles have been reversed. As a friend, by comparison, I have been a selfish coward whose actions haven’t supported all those rambling speeches about your greatness I’ve made over the years. I don’t know why I have ever betrayed your trust or love when you have never once been disloyal to me, but I do know that I may never forgive myself for it. It’s just another testament to your wonderfulness that you somehow have, as always, seen that these actions aren’t indicative of my real Self and have forgiven me. Additionally, you have never once held me hostage for my shortcomings… Don’t think I don’t always carry those truths with me.

I always say that Chloe was The Thing That Saved My Life, but you need to know that YOU have constantly been The Thing That Makes Me Better. You bring out something in me that makes me a totally different person than the one I always thought I was; the energy I get when you’re around makes me love being alive and love being present and love being creative and fucking LOVE being myself. That sounds inane and melodramatic and really, really adolescent, but it’s true; you make me really happy to love the things I love. (“I JUST LOVE THE STUFF I LOVE!!!”) Just like I’d always kept my burning passion for Pearl Jam stuck in my pocket until I met you and let it reignite like crazy ever since, you’ve been the one to give me permission to really hurl myself at my loves, regardless of how idiotic they look to everyone else. You’re the one who lets me ramble for hours about Jim Henson/“Sesame Street” and who wants to watch “Tommy” 4,000 times to blabber about its nuances with me and you’re the one who will introduce me to new stand-up comedians or let me subject you to them and then dissect their genius for years upon years and you’re totally okay with spending Bear’s naptime just hanging out, smoking a hookah, drinking a shitload of Cheerwine, watching/running commentary during “Gia” and giggling about how fabulous it all is after making freshly-picked-strawberry-jam and you’re the one who gives me confidence to submit my writing to other people when I think it’s not terrible and you’re the one who gave me the balls to actually put that first stencil to use tagging various landmarks by immediately shouting “YES! LET’S DO IT!” and you’re the one who fucking laughs her ass off when I make a joke that I think is pretty good. You’re the one (many times the only one) who encourages me to not only figure out exactly what it is that I am, but to get really good at being that thing and then showing it to other people, when you will cheer loudly about it. Jesus Christ! Just writing that makes me feel unworthy.
Oh, but oh yeah! AND you’re able to do all of this cheerleading while also going out and seeking your own identity and truth and rocking at that, too.
DO YOU KNOW HOW RARE THAT IS!? Do you have any idea how fucking lucky I am to have found the aforementioned person AND that that person hasn’t totally given up on me yet AT ALL EVER (maybe because she’s insane, but I’m okay with that)!?!?!?! Because I don’t. I literally cannot conceive the odds of finding someone as special as you, having you come into and stay in my life for this long, and giving me all the gifts you have (and not just because I’m terrible at math…)

So, yeah. I just wanted you to know that I thought about all this today in church and realized that I’ll be talking about you still if I make it to 70 years old. And I realized that I would literally peel the skin off my back and sew it into a greasy, bloody skin-shirt for you if you absolutely needed it [in some post-apocalyptic, dystopian reality where that would somehow be crucial for survival.] (That sort of plot-hole is why I don’t write sci-fi.)
And I hope you know that everything I’ve ever said about your energy and vibrancy and incredible talent is the truth and is one of the rare, few things I Definitely Believe In. And I hope you know that I love you and have loved you no matter what my slow-to-adapt mind has convinced me of. I feel like you know these things, but I also felt like I needed to state them plainly and in print, where they could be cited and referenced.
More than anything, though, I’m so grateful that you’ve been such a definitive part of my last ten years. I don’t want to say anything hokey or forecasting about the future because that always seems to backfire for morons (ex: “Hope I die before I get old” – P.T.), but do know that these last ten years have been wonderful (even when they were fuckinggoddamnawfully terrible) because you have been in them.

Thank you so very much, Allison. Even if all our inside jokes and all our co-creations and all our memories and all our shared loves were suddenly stripped away from my conscious mind, I would still love you and everything you inherently are. I promise.

Right behind you,
L P-S

I had a handful of things I was distraught about within my daily life before the holidays started and, so, to distract myself from those things, I flung myself into festive insanity headfirst, like sending Christmas cards and arranging for a visit from an old friend and planning overzealously for a day-with-a-bride-friend and eating at my local cupcake shop every day for a month and, you know… stuff. Don’t get me wrong; I thoroughly enjoyed these distractions, but I ultimately knew that it would mean my return to my Underlying Problems eventually and, alas. Here we are.

Some things in my psyche have changed in big ways, which is good for my day-to-day mentality: I’ve found peace with and befriended a major antagonist from my past (no, for real) and learned/came-to-peace with some other truths surrounding the whole context of our relationship, which clears up an absolute ton of weight sitting in the back of my subconscious (although I’ve tended to keep that part quiet in the years since we last spoke because, frankly, I hated that it was even there. ANYWAY.) Greg and I are in a really good, forward-moving, mentally healthy place; the Bear is slowly becoming more independent and I feel like I’m able to liberate her to her own volition a lot more, which is more rewarding than the feeling of being sapped of needs. A friend gave me a new perspective on writing this memoir (write it more like an editor reading someone else’s work instead of trying to re-live all that emotion and horseshit for the purpose of producing “authentic” work. So, basically, start editing those blog entries I’ve kept on a hard drive for some 8 years now) which is also incredibly freeing.

But, aside from that, there is still the Fear I’m finding myself faced with in my writing and the loneliness that’s been dragging me into stasis. I have set-in-stone, proactive plans to fix these things in the near future (like, I’m starting yoga classes this week and I’m taking the Bear horseback riding on Saturday and I’m making a writing schedule for myself so I’m holding myself to at least some sort of discipline.

But, if we’re being honest here (and I am), I woke up this morning and found that my excited, engaged energy from the last month has ground to a halt and I’m staring into the abyss of 2012 with a feeling of familiar dread and sinking morale. No matter how much I’m pep-talking myself (and, again, I definitely am), I’m fighting off tears and the urge to create another distraction for myself. I feel confident I could wallow in either for years if I really wanted to, mostly because I already have.

I’m reminded of an old saying a friend once shared: “On good days, chop wood and haul water. On bad days, chop wood and haul water.”

This is one of those rambling ones. But with bullet points. And some might be seemingly passively-aggressively directed toward someone specific, but those are really just things I wanted to say but didn’t that are being directed here at nobody in particular. And some of these are just facts. And some of these could be sung out loud to the tune of “Lady” by STYX. Maybe.

~ A couple weeks ago I was yelling along with the “Pick of Destiny” soundtrack as per all my solo roadtrips when I came upon the “Dude, I Totally Miss You” track. Now, a dear friend of mine and I have sworn to sing it at the other’s funeral, depending on who goes first and I’ve howled along with the song dozens upon dozens of times since we made that pact, but, for some reason, driving down the road all by myself in the middle of nowhere in broad daylight, my mind somehow conjured up the emotions that would have accompanied my performance if I was actually doing it at her funeral. Like, you know how sometimes you get so lost in a fantasy or a thought or a memory on the road that you kind of drive without thinking for a while and when you “come back”, you don’t remember a chunk of the trip (they referred to it on “30 Rock” once as “driving amnesia”)? Basically, that happened as I was absorbed into this insanely elaborate fantasy regarding me singing in front of a packed cathedral, being backed by Tenacious D on guitars and vocals and Grohl on the drums and I was sobbing as though it was all real. Okay, I’m sure that sounds nuts, but I figured it was just a manifestation of my subconscious grieving the fact that she was moving far far away relatively soon. Either way, I gave a harrowing performance that I’m sure looked more than a bit alarming to anyone who passed me on the road, but that definitely had Peter Dinklage weeping slow tears in the fourth pew back.

~ (WARNING: Here be euphemisms) When I’m “in need of a fix” and I can’t “get my old engine out of the station” so I have to “double-click my own mouse”, the most efficient visual aide for the last 10 freaking years has always been watching Pelle Almqvist in the “Hate to Say I Told You So” video. Literally nothing “gets the job done” as quickly or as effectively as that… not even “Stoya Kills the Bear” (the latter is NSFW, should you choose to Google it. Heh. I’m kinda hoping a few of you do, actually, ’cause I love bewildering people.)

~ I did not know that “Mahatma” was a title of sorts whereas “Mohandas” was Gandhi’s actual real name until this week, when I finally read the back of his autobiography, which has been laying beside my bed in a pile of literature for over 6 months now. And I feel like the biggest moron on the planet for that.

~ When your name pops up in my Facebook Notifications, I get uncharacteristically giddy and bashful and giggling-behind-my-curled-in-hand weird. At my computer. All by myself. Every single time.

~ Today, the Bear and I were tumblin’ around together and she pulled me over into a position where I was lying halfway over her on the couch, with my elbows supporting my weight, but my legs still dangling off the front as though I was sitting upright. Suddenly somber, she reached up and pulled my head into the crook between her neck and collarbone on her left side and started stroking my hair and giving me kisses on my forehead. Obviously, she was mimicking an action I’ve done for her many, many times but she kept it up for about 20-ish minutes, just stroking my hair and softly saying things like, “I love you more than anybody.” and “You make me sooo happy, do you know that?”  It was more healing than many of my years in therapy.

~ I totally voted for you even though I knew about some scandalous (no-harm-no-foul-type) stuff way before all this other junk hit the news. What I mean here is: you should probably hire somebody to write “thank you for not ever saying anything” letters for you full-time ’cause you’ve got looooads of people who ain’t talkin’ and haven’t been for a long time, apparently.

~ My daughter is obsessed with that story about the girl with the green ribbon around her neck who grows up and asks her husband to untie it and her head falls off… and it’s creeping me out how often she wants me to read it to her and then answer her probing analytical questions regarding the plot.

~ It is literally mind-numbing how much hotter you’ve gotten since high school… which is why I act like a moron when we communicate…because my mind is unable to process the very obvious, basic reality with which is has been presented and, therefore, cannot possibly be expected to do anything else.

~”Swingers” and “Ghost World” are both overrated crap, along with “Lost in Translation”, no matter how good any of the individual performances were. There. I said it out loud.

‘Pronoia’ p.271 #1: Have you ever had permission to indulge in a marathon of braggadocio? Have you ever gotten an invitation to bluster on endlessly about your own charms without feeling even a touch of guilt or inhibition? I hereby grant you such a license right now.

To whet you imagination, read an excert from the boast of Eric Baer, a participant in a Brag Therapy session hosted in Milwaukee. “I have opposable thumbs, ” Eric exulted. “I can read. I breathe all the way through the night even though I’m asleep. I have access to emporiums where I can choose from 25 different brands of toilet paper. I know how to turn food into energy. I live where knuckleheads run everything and yet nothing ever blows up.”

NOTE: I’ll be honest, it honestly took me a couple days to muster the gumption to do this exercise. But what the hell? You only live once. Here we go:

I sing rock songs done originally by men so well that I don’t have to pay a bar tab at most karaoke bars, and not just because I don’t drink alcohol. I put brown sugar in my tea which makes it more awesome than usual. I have the prettiest, healthiest, thickest hair of anyone I know – and the color is divine. I was curvy before it was trendy. I can say the alphabet backwards. I have hitchhiker’s thumbs. I have a soul and believe in helping people who can’t help themselves, which means that I may have to sacrifice some of my luxury to do so. Sometimes when I get on a roll I’m funny as shit. I can win debates with about 85% of people and I can level those people with calm, stealthy rhetoric. I’ve sampled more types of chocolate than most people my age. I have unbelievably dark and long lashes. I’ve rung up a $50 tab on sashimi all by myself. I can alternate reading the same 5 books and still remember where I was and what was happening in each of them. I believe in changing energies and the Law of Attraction and perform rituals to do so. I can do the best Ethel Merman impression you’ve ever heard. I can dance like a fiend. I only get about 4 zits every year. I can eat a whole gallon of chocolate ice cream in one sitting. I wrote my first piece of erotica at 12 years old. I can sing every song on Styx’s “Paradise Theatre” and “The Grand Illusion” albums by heart. I’m not allergic to ANYTHING. My child literally uses manners in her sleep because I rock at setting an example. I spoil my friends with presents, even when I can’t afford them. Actually, I love giving people things in general and have been known to make myself broke by making donations to charities, people, bums on the street, etc. I waited until I was totally ready to lose my virginity and, no, I don’t think I was too young and, no, I won’t be upset if my daughter loses hers at the same age. I’m more introspective and proactive about changing my dysfunctions than at least 70% of the rest of the people in the society in which I was raised. My nose piercing has looked the same since the minute it was done – no swelling, no infection, no redness, just adorableness. I’m the biggest ‘Sesame Street’ nerd I know. I have a fantastic alias/nom de plume. I totally pick up on social cues even though I choose to ignore a lot of them. I have five short stories I’ve been working on for a year now. My body magically knew to provide me with too much seratonin and dopamine during my pregnancy as a defense mechanism against my chronic depression. My eyes change color every day. I know how to spell. Every time that I’ve done something that someone else has perceived as psychotic, I’ve been fully aware that that was what was going to happen and I went ahead and did it anyway – sometimes just to freak people out. I’ve never ever cried to get myself out of a ticket. I look adorable in earmuffs, a furry hat, pincurls, dreadlocks, kitty-cat ears and 1950′s style A-line housedresses. I’ve had over 20 diaries and journals since I was 5 and I’ve kept all of them. I know exactly how to be annoying and I can cite the minute it happens with anyone I’m targeting. Oh yeah, and I annoy people I don’t like but have to be around because it’s totally fun and I’m thoroughly amused by it… and because I have to let my inner brat out from time to time. I pwned the 12 Steps and tools of therapy. I’m so irresistable I’ve had to put out not one but two restraining orders on people. I won a multiplication bee when I was in the 3rd grade and, because the teacher preemptively knew I’d win it, she bought me some Sherlock Holmes books ’cause she knew I loved reading them. I’m fully aware when I say things that make me look dysfunctional. I was the only one giggling when I saw both “Titanic” and “The Notebook” (I was dragged) in the theatre. Despite what my high school drama teacher (“facilitator”) said, I got my own paragraph-of-glowing-praise in the public reviews from the only two community theatre productions I’ve ever been in… and in one of those productions I didn’t even speak. I make ideal pancakes. I have over 40 mix tapes and CDs that were made by friends in the last ten years. Oh, and I make arguably better mix CD’s than most people. I saved at least $1,000 by buying all my textbooks from Amazon.com and teaching my family how to do the same. I work every day on self-betterment, even if I don’t have time for it. I didn’t marry an idiot. I have my own desk, my own computer, my own filing cabinet, my own Etsy store, my own three domains and my own two blogs. I get gifts from across the planet every year. I make the most artistically badass scrapbooks I’ve ever seen. I’ve played a 200 year old piano located at Juliette Gordon Low’s house after the tour guide said, “We only let one girl do this every year.” I’m so irresistable I’ve had not one, but three “stalkers” (crazy people who won’t leave me alone and keep calling/harassing me because they’re in love) and have had handfuls of people I’ve heard can’t/won’t/don’t stop talking about me even years after I’ve forgotten them. I live in North Carolina. I know a real enigma. I survived both jr. high and high school. I’m not a bigot. I’m a neo-feminist which means that I can enjoy baking, sewing, knitting, etc without feeling some sort of guilt that I’m backsliding or being a slave to societal patriarchy. I look awesome in red. I also look awesome with purple highlights in my hair. My guitar was given to me by a Grammy winner and Top 40 recording artist. My top half is two sizes smaller than my lower half. I can recite every line in “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” The Movie. I’m no longer envious of, threatened by or hateful to beautiful women (and not just because I’ve embraced the fact that they turn me on.) I have a Pick of Destiny. I get more excited about autumn than most [Christian] kids do about Christmas. I’ve never seen an episode of “The Hills”, “Laguna Beach” or “Jersey Shore”. I won/earned a Girl Scout Silver Award before anyone else in my troop did and I earned every Try-It that Brownie Girl Scouts could in the early 90′s. I’ve traveled abroad and have been to all but 15 of the United States. I’ve learned how to cut needy idiots out of my life once they’ve screwed up too many times instead of staying emotionally invested and draining myself for no reason. I stopped biting my fingernails. I have the cutest child on the planet who also happens to be polite, selfless, sociable and giggly. After years of apologizing and making amends for all those years I was a terrible, awful person, I’m finally in the clear and don’t owe anyone anything [for the moment]!!! I had the best wedding I’ve ever heard of in my entire life.

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.

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?

~ Sometime after I got pregnant I turned into a giant softie. I wasn’t emotionally devoid before this or anything but ’round the time I got knocked up I found my emotions had moved to just a sceeerraaatch below the surface. Suddenly I was the woman crying about Clorox commercials (The one where the little girl is pretending to be a mermaid in her bathtub, to be exact. I was thinking “One day my daughter will have an imagination!”. Waterworks.) I kind of thought that this would go away after all the Natal Juice dissipated. No such luck.
And honestly, it’s more than just ridiculous at this point. I mean, there are things that have always made me cry (“The Land Before Time” made me sob in the theatre when I was 8. I can’t even listen to the music to this day and I haven’t seen it in some 17-ish years…) but then there are things that make me tear up for absolutely no reason at all. This happens about once a day and, while I’ve developed a technique for thwarting oncoming tears, I’m still pretty embarrassed by the whole thing. And the motives for the tears run the gamut, too.
My husband tells my daughter she’s beautiful? Tears.
A woman is crying in her car in the Sonic parking lot? Tears.
A song reminds me that I miss my best friend? Tears.
Holocaust footage? Just as many tears as if I see a dead cat on the side of the road.

~ The programming on Bravo is making me lose faith in humanity. With all these “Real Housewives” shows and other shows based around self-centered, drama-laden idiots it’s turning into MTV for adults. Which. Is. Gross.

~ Celebrity verdicts? Alright, here we go:

– I don’t think Dave Chappelle lost his mind; I think he didn’t want to sell his soul for fame and that’s admirable and even more indicative of his genius. I miss his work but I admire his integrity.

- I don’t think Michael Jackson did anything with those kids. Do I think the man was bonkers as a result of a fuuuuucked up childhood? Yes. Do I think that his music was only really “great” when he was working with Quincy Jones? No question. But the first kid who’s parents pressed charges came out years later and admitted to making the whole thing up and the second case pretty much showcased a mother out for MJ money. Also, when the kids stayed in his bed, he slept on the floor. Just let the man rest peacefully, for Christ’s sake. I really think that his life is one of the saddest stories I’ve ever heard. Fame took a toll on his sanity; he’s free from it now. Let’s try to learn something and then get the fuck over it. (And I’m glad he pwned his dad in his will. Way to stick it to him, Mike.)

~ I just wrote a song, which is weird because musical inspiration NEVER comes to me and when it does it’s always a massive exercise in terrible. But this time the song is actually pretty good. It’s more pop-rock than is my taste so I’ll probably never play it in public, but hey, it’s a start.

~ Two days until the trip to Chicago. I folded and purchased Dramamine today. I’ll be using this for emergency only and will probably suffer from a little guilt afterward.

~ Shit, I’m bored.

~ When Greg and I had only been dating about six weeks we traveled up to Chicagoland to visit his parents. While there we took a superlong road trip to Cleveland for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony (which, by the way, takes place in the freaking Waldorf-Astoria… miiiiles away from Ohio) and stopped off for lunch in the small town where Greg grew up. Even though we were only at the beginning of our relationship and were still completely unaware we were about to become parents, we looked at each other and said “You know, I wouldn’t mind starting a family and living in a tiny town like this with you.”

I’d forgotten about this exchange until just this morning.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is one of those posts that starts out all redundant and whiny but it has a totally reflective, positive ending. Promise. I’m still riding this whole revelations thing, apparently.

The daily frustrations and insecurities have been slinking back into my daily life. There are so many things I really want to do right now and the constant understimulation of observing of a small child all day have been starting to take a toll on me, my self-esteem, my sense of self-worth again. I start becoming convinced that I’m wasting my 20′s being counterproductive to society and not accomplishing any of the things I genuinely want to do, to start in my life right now. Additionally, all that momentum I was feeling a few weeks ago regarding my handful of major new projects has started dissipating as I’ve found myself unable to get anything completed with the lifestyle I have right now and I’m starting to feel confined and trapped within the restrictions of caring for an active toddler. This is something I’ve been told many mothers experience but that knowledge rarely makes me feel any better when I get these spells of self-pity. And nothing seems to quell the repeated frustration of having the wind taken out of my sails yet again.

Now, look, I’ve been through enough therapy and recovery to know what to do with myself during little typical-human rifts like this. Divert my attention to the things I’m grateful for. Make a game plan that accommodates my needs and still allows me to make progress on my goals. Don’t focus on the negative. Accept that this is normal new-mother behavior and ride the waves of life until this works itself out. Be patient as this, too, will pass and as the Bear grows older, she will become more independent and I will have the time to finish the projects I have planned for myself.
I got it.
I know.

But still, sitting in my therapist’s office, I felt like such a whiny fool for having this same problem that was affecting my mood and powerless as it’s something I have to just accept and live with at the moment. I feel powerless that I can’t provide for my family better, that outside forces have held us back from advancing in our careers and physical location, that even though I start every day with a handful of intentions, rarely are they all completed by the time I go to bed.

Then my therapist asked me something that caused me to immediately burst into tears:
“Is this the life you would have chosen for yourself?”

Obviously, this is a life I did choose for myself. I did have the option to not keep my child, I did have the option to not marry my husband, I did have the option to choose a path much much different than the one I’m on now. But I knew then and know now that these things really weren’t an option for me; my heart wanted to keep my child, my heart wanted to commit myself to my husband. These are choices that I’ve always been proud of and always been happy with. Even now when I’m struggling to find a sense of competence within them.

But when I found out I was pregnant, I was in a really transformative stage. After years of being crippled by depression, addiction, shitty self-esteem and the ensuing lifestyle choices that inevitably follow these sort of criteria, I was finally emerging on my own. I was finally happy being romantically single, I was finally getting out and getting involved within my community, exploring new facets of myself and enjoying things that I really loved doing. I had this great momentum I wanted to ride into my postgraduate years, taking the inner independence I was uncovering and seeing the world, attending graduate school, finally getting out from under my parents’ watchful eye and trying this whole adult lifestyle thing again. These were things I was actively working toward around April 2007 and things I was finding more excitement for than anything else I’d been a part of in many many years. I was high on the relief and joy of finally stepping into my own.

I love my life now. I love my husband and my home and my daughter and I honestly would not give them up for anything in this world. I wouldn’t even take a time machine and delay their arrival if I had the choice. I mean that. I’ve not spent a moment in the last two years resenting or regretting anything about my choices and there’s liberation in that. True, I’m not living where I want to and I’m not able to make the forward movement in my career and education that I want to, but aside from that, I live in a tiny paradise. And I’m thankful that I get to look forward to the rest of my life with these two in tow.

However, my therapist brought to attention that maybe I hadn’t taken the time to think about the loss of hope and optimism I had just before everything changed. I had been banking on a new change, a new start and, while I certainly got one, it might not have been the one I would’ve chosen for myself at the time if given the choice. In fact, if I’m going to be completely honest, it definitely isn’t what I would’ve chosen at the time.

Shit, that’s hard to say out loud. Especially to someone else. (Not that I talk to myself… or… or anything ::sheepish laugh:: I mean, I’m not crazy… heh.. anyway.) Even though I’m delighted with how everything in my immediate life has turned out and who I am as a result of choosing it all, I hate that apparent admission that it wasn’t my first choice when it all started. At the time I didn’t hesitate to fling myself into the joy associated with bringing a new life into the world and starting on a whole new journey. I really didn’t take the time for reconsideration or even questioning this new lifestyle; I was scared and uncertain, sure, but I think I was so excited about having found love and the unexpected surprise of a daughter and so eager to hurl myself into change and forward-motion that I didn’t pause to reflect on the diversion my life was taking. Maybe I was so desperate for change that I rode the high of having it handed to me a little blindly. Not that I regret that when I think about it; wasting time questioning myself would’ve only added to my stress during all of the moving-in-together, and preparing-for-baby and all that. Maybe it was a mental defense mechanism…

But when my doctor asked me that one question, I found myself in tears I absolutely wasn’t anticipating and didn’t even know were part of the equation. Admittedly, it was a bit of a luxury to cry over the loss of a self-indulgent, egocentric lifestyle I’d planned for myself (a sad stereotype of being an early-millenium twenty-something it seems.) and I’m trying not to waste time on guilt with that, but apparently it was something that needed to come out, this whole act of taking a little bit of time to recognize and mourn the loss of a projected path, an ideal lifestyle I’d crafted for myself.

Naturally, this doesn’t mean that all hope is lost for my life’s potential or anything ridiculous. I’ll continue to have the same ultimate goals for my life that I’ve always had and I’ll continue to plug away and try to make those a reality, although they may take more time to accomplish than I’d like. (Damn you, Universe, for your tireless lessons on patience!! ::shakes fist::) Inevitably, on any path I would’ve encountered obstacles that would’ve hindered my enthusiasm and progress, so it’s not like this one is any worse or outstanding than the others.

But it kind of felt good to recognize that, while they were totally selfish and self-serving, I did lose something I badly desired for myself and I am allowed to feel pain for the sacrifices I made to have the life I do now. I don’t know why feeling these things required permission from an outside observer; maybe the guilt of seeming ungrateful or hurting someone’s feelings was too much for me to admit this revelation to myself no matter how bad it was eating away at my subconscious. Whatever the case, it was freeing in a way and really started putting my doubt and frustrations in a perspective based on my personal circumstances, even if that’s more than a bit of an indulgence. If nothing else, this whole realization and chance to grieve has served as a sufficient pressing of the “Reset” button on my mentality as to how I’m living right now and the pressure I put on myself to adhere to the same rules and regulations I had before being a parent was my defining job title. It shifts the whole frame of reference to something completely different and there’s a good deal of liberation in that.

And maybe I’m finally starting to emerge from criticizing myself so oppressively based on the standards I assume must apply to everyone and maybe even starting to accept that everyone has their own set of actions that define their “personal best.” Maybe there’s something to that 4th Agreement that I’ve been raving about for a couple years now…

Christ, it takes me a long-ass time to “get” things. My therapist must really be enjoying my [literally] retarded breakthrough process, if only financially.

I honestly don’t know if I can do this.

I know what I believe. I know what I want to make of myself as a person. I realize that the crime this incarcerated penpal of mine committed has nothing to do with me and, therefore, does not require my judgment or forgiveness. I know what the right thing to do is right now, but I don’t know if I have the strength of character to do it.

Before I Googled this woman yesterday, I was halfway finished with a letter that I was writing to her. I hadn’t caught up with her in a while and I owed her some correspondence as I felt bad for having neglected her in the last few months. When I read what she had done, I was immediately put into a tailspin and was really confused and troubled by what I’d learned about her. All afternoon my heart was heavy with shock and grief and, hours after I laid down to go to sleep, I was still unable to stop thinking about it, wondering about it, trying not to put a visualization to it.

I finished the letter today although the words were staggered and awkward without the usual comfort I’d been able to exude in the first half. I fought my way to the post office and sat in the drop-off lane looking at the letter until the man behind me honked for me to make a drop or leave. Holding my breath, I dropped the envelope into the slot and roared away before I could begin to regret what I’d done.

I immediately threw up when I got home. Even now, I’m anxious and troubled and unable to think about anything else.

Christ, it’d be nice not to have to feel every single emotion I have so damned intensely for a change.

I know what I believe. I know what kind of person I want to be.

But I feel more sapped of energy and strength than I have in a long time. I am ashamed with how defeated and cowardly I feel about this whole thing and how my overwhelming judgment could be capable of changing my entire relationship with and personal worth of someone else who has never done anything to hurt me or my family. I’m embarrassed and troubled about what that says about me as a person. I am embarrassed about what that says about my commitment to my convictions.

Suddenly, I feel very very weak. Very very small.

I spend a freakish amount of time dissecting and scrutinizing myself, motivations, emotions, thought patterns, actions, etc. I’ve discussed it before but in my recovery I kind of took the whole “taking a daily self inventory” thing to an extreme. (I’m big on extremes; never much for moderation. This, too, I’ve discussed. Moving along.) Most of the time I’m not so much reviewing my actions as convincing myself further that I am an emotional disaster that even the Red Cross wouldn’t cover. I obsessively judge every single thought that crosses my mind and I tend to drive myself into a self-beaty-uppy frenzy more often than I’d like to admit. Honestly, I’m not just tough on myself; I’m fucking relentless.

Recently, however, I’ve been privy to a few different situations that kind of have stopped me in my tracks. A while ago I talked about the Universe momentarily dropping the veil between my life now and what it could have been hadn’t bothered with practicing active recovery and, since that didn’t seem to be enough to get the message across (I’m a slow learner sometimes), the Universe then began hurling at me more and more examples to support its point. I was kind of starting to get it, but apparently I needed an extreme example. Go figure.

So yesterday I’m folding laundry, washing dishes, doing other general housewifery and watching a documentary about women who are stalkers. I listened to women who were reformed stalkers and had gone on to live normal, sane lives and other women who were still proud of their actions and felt totally justified in their completely insane tactics. It was weird how some of the women on either side discussed a very real sense of purity and justice in their actions (even though the reformed ones have since realized that this was a mere illusion) and remembering how, in my craziest (usually alcohol-soaked) moments I felt the same drive. And then I thought about people that I knew/know in my own life who display this same kind of Crazy… and then I started thinking about the people I know who display a lot of Crazy in other forums.

And I started to feel really really good about myself for a change.

Here’s the thing. I still have tendencies toward the Crazy from time to time and sometimes they even get a little out of my control, which is scary. But I am always always working to get better and I’m consciously keeping them in check (or immediately wrangling them back into check should they momentarily escape.) And you know what? My Crazy isn’t ruining my life or the lives of those around me anymore. My Crazy isn’t bailing on my friends and family, isn’t busy trying to destroy myself with drinking or drugs or insane spending sprees or shitty relationships. My Crazy isn’t driven from fear or loneliness or selfishness or low self esteem anymore and I’m no longer perpetuating a shitty or even mediocre existence out of confusion or denial or anger or fear or anything, really. My Crazy doesn’t conduct any of the dramas that inevitably come into my life and I’m able to dismiss any unnecessary bullshit quickly and efficiently because the Crazy doesn’t rule my ego anymore.

In fact, if I can take a minute to fling humility by the wayside, I have a pretty rad life right now. And, given that this life is so much better than it used to be a few years ago, I’m pretty convinced that my work in therapy and sobriety and general recovery is directly responsible for building this around me. My family not only completely trusts me these days (a MAJOR change from the former) but they enjoy my company and have confidence in my abilities as a parent and as a competent adult (an even more major change.) I have a base group of amazing friends who constantly have my back and are always rightthere when I need them, without me having to ask. I have a functional, jealousy-and- [99%]- insecurity-free love life with a man whom I trust and love completely, who treats me the way my parents always told me I deserved to be treated, who is committed to growing and nurturing each other in our lives together. I have a healthy, happy daughter who is developing perfectly on schedule even though I know next to nothing about being a parent.

Apparently, even though my Crazy may always be on my mind and I may always be on guard for its attacks, it really plays a very very minor role in my life these days. My neuroses (and ensuing insecurities and then the resulting complications of such insecurities which cycle back into neuroses) are minor obstacles that crop up every so often instead of acting as guidelines and barriers in which to contain my whole entire existence. Proudly, I can admit that this is the very first time in … well, since I can remember… since 5th grade?… that I can say that. These days the things that used to cripple me and keep me submerged in a miserable life are just little mostly insignificant quirks to my character that are laughable among my close friends and family, instead of being exhausting and embarrassing to those around me.

This doesn’t let me off the hook, of course. I’m never off the hook, really, if I plan to keep growing and learning about myself and life and recovery and all that (which I do.) And I certainly don’t think I’m all figured out or have all The Answers or am somehow above fault or relapse or missteps. I’m not a conceited idiot. I’m sure I’ll continue over-scrutinization/criticism of myself until I’m old and grey (even though, like effing everything pertaining to my thought behaviors, I’m working to find a middle ground on that, too.)

But for just a second, I think I’m going to take a break to be a little smug and arrogant. (Again, I’m big on extremes.) ‘Cause I used to be Utterly Hopeless, Pathetic, Destructive Crazy, but now I really believe (supported with aforementioned evidence, of course) I’m safely in Self-Aware, Seemingly-Normal(-Whatever-That-Is), More-Than-Functional/Downright-Thriving Crazy. To the outside [of my head] observer I’m functional, capable, assured, competent, sane, trustworthy, normal-amount-wobbly, instead of being chronically catastrophic. Nobody’s making “Crazy Bitch” or “Crazy Train” the ringtone that sounds when I call them. (This actually happened at one point.) Sure, people may have terrible things to say about me (people always have terrible things to say about anyone, it seems) but they’re not locking their doors or putting restraining orders out because of me. (Frankly, I think anyone who may have a problem with me these days really just has to be looking for drama. Clearly they’re wasting more time/energy being pissy and resentful than I am, ’cause it’s clear skies on my end.) And I’m not covering my head in shame from my most recent stint of making a total ass of myself or loudly defending myself to a bunch of random people I may or may not have wronged a la “Springer”. Not having the Crazy at the ready is pretty damned liberating, relaxing even.

So yeah, I’m taking a minute to sit back on my laurels and indulge in a little schadenfreude toward the Crazies with whom I no longer share a category. Of course it’s morally wrong/bitchy/insensitive and an incredibly cocky, shameful fault to admit to publicly. However, this emotion will, of course, settle into a middle ground of healthy, normal, gratitude with which I can maintain a productive sense of humility. But for just one second I’m going to enjoy snorting and sighing at the Crazies around me with knowing pity, “Damn; that bitch/bastard is cah-razy.” without feeling too much like a hypocrite.

I’m probably going to start with my next door neighbor. It’s like having Springer’s show delivered to my home! (Actually, any reality TV is good for this.) And then there’s the crazy bitch that keeps harassing me via MySpace from 1,000 some miles away. Oh, I could do this for a while.

“I’m rich rich richrich rich.” – Yeah Yeah Yeahs