Lovely, what do you think of me? You don't know me all that well, I suppose. Oh, we've talked and laughed and shared our secrets, but what does all that really say about a person? You would argue that it says quite a lot, I'm sure.
I'm riding in the wake of my euphoria. It doesn't feel good.
I wish I was braver. I can be pathetically weak when it comes to taking a stand. I crumple. No where does this show itself more obviously than in my relationships.
He's the pre-med dropout/alcoholic. After showing up drunk to class for the third time, he was "let go" from his courses. And given a restraining order. When the dwarfs realized Doc couldn't act as their supplier anymore, they moved out into a secluded wood to wean themselves off their addictions. It didn't work. Doctor Dipso's constantly red nose (I mean come on--he can't get sunburned in a mine), beer belly-paunch, and onsetting wet brain do little to disguise his addiction. (Not to mention, an alcoholic doctor. Come on, man--spare us the irritating cliche.) Luckily for him, the A-type personality and delusional optimism that keeps his drug circle droogies in line also keeps Grumpy's knife at bay.
It's a sad day for humanity if I have to explain this one. He's the hippie pothead, originally too scared to try anything hardcore, and now too brain damaged to care one way or another. He's the luckiest of the seven, as the forest provides a fertile environment to grow and harvest his marijuana, so he never has to go without a fix. The green-suited dope fiend is probably also sharing in Doc's booze supply (note beer belly, red nose, and vague, swimming demeanor).
He's the resident barbiturate addict. Ironically, he wasn't a druggie before moving out to the woods, but his brothers' compulsive and violent withdrawal behaviors sent him running for escape . . . which he found in sleeping . . . all the time . . . with the help of downers. Sleepy has been known, at times, to substitute alcohol for drugs, curling up with a bottle of Scotch (Doc's Scotch) and crying himself to sleep. It's a clinical depressive thing--you wouldn't understand.
Tell me, what drug is taken through the nose, hurting the nostrils and causing uncontrollable nosebleeds and sneezing? That's right--he's on a regular diet of Bolivian Marching Powder, this one. Unfortunately for our little cokehead, during the making of Snow White he was in the habit of blowing several rails every night, leaving him with sick hangovers right out some cliche drug movie and nasty-tasting postnasal drip during filming. (His inexplicably retarded behavior--EXPLAINED: the man was using Doc's liquor stash to counteract splitting cocaine-induced headaches. He did fabulous considering how plastered he was.)
Originally, Grumpy was a heroin addict. Seeing as how his dealer wasn't willing to tramp into the happy bunny forest where the dwarfs relocated to exchange the goods, though, he made the switch to methadone in hopes of coming off his dependency altogether. He failed. As a result, though he's been spared the seemingly inevitable opioid withdrawal syndrome, the methadone has left him and without any of the euphoric effects of heroin, leaving him a right crotchety old jerk (and completely stabilized, mind you, meaning he can continue his pissy behavior right up to his death).
A chronic sufferer of social anxiety disorder, Bashful turned to self-medication within the SSRI family of drugs when Doc got his hands on some Paxil. (Side note: Bashful used to be a rather trim little thing, but as paroxetine causes serious weight gain, he's now running [no pun intended] at about forty pounds over.) His condition being so severe that the ingestion of any more pills would result in heart failure, Bashful also frequents Doc's alcohol supply--Coors Light, to be exact, which keeps a nice buzz going without causing (too) serious an impediment to his mental faculties, and also doesn't contribute (too) heavily to any further weight gain.
I'm of the personal opinion that men this morbidly overweight should not even attempt cultivating facial hair, as it makes them out to be some sort of deranged Santa. And by God, I was right. Albeit, in this case, it's more of an overly-friendly Captain Kangaroo, potato sack shoe-wearing, strangely shaped hat-sporting deranged elf of Santa, but my point remains, nonetheless. Anyway, I think it should be clear to anyone with two brain cells to rub together that that not only is Happy a chronic overeater, but is also, not surprisingly, on "happy pills." Ecstasy. Lord knows all the symptoms match up: enhanced sense of self-confidence and energy, feelings of closeness and the desire to touch others, as well as peacefulness, empathy, and acceptance. Now if only there were medical terms to explain away that blasted horn he insists on playing, and we might actually be getting somewhere.
Excuse me, condescending assholes: You have no right to speak to me the way you do. You are rude, you are nearsighted, and, frankly, stupid. You have no basis for the things you say. They are predicated on ignorance and insensitivity.
Next time, before you open your whiny mouth, think, "What will I gain from acting like a superior asshat in this situation?"
The answer is: nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Want to know why? Because I've already beaten you. I am so far ahead in every pertinent category that no matter how much bullshit you spew at me, you can never catch up. You are not more competent than I am; you are not more aware than I am; and you sure as hell aren't smarter than I am.
Perhaps you should consider the possibility--and I know this will sound crazy--that I am not the slow one in any given situation. Perhaps if there has been a miscommunication, misunderstanding, or something similar, it is you who has caused it. And before you mention that I am the only one who does not seem to [understand the way you speak/follow you logic/care about the tabloids/follow a strict diet/etc.], and therefore I must be the one in the wrong . . . no, sweetheart, that's not how it works. There are some stark differences in our backgrounds and cultures, and it would be ridiculous to assume that I would connect to anything and everything you offer up. (Moreover, you would not last a day with my people. You would embarrass yourself to no end. However, we would have better manners than to openly mock you for it.)
You are the problem. I do not say this to your face because I very much doubt it would have any effect on the way you conduct yourself. You are self-absorbed and eternally bent on being right. The day you take someone else's feelings and suggestions into account is the day hell freezes over.
My only consolation is that I will be subjected to you for a very short time, but you have to live with yourself forever.
There's something about being sick that brings everything into focus. You just don't have the energy to bullshit yourself. Your defenses are down. You're forced, physically and mentally, to confront everything as it hits you.
Your emotions seem to balloon to vast proportions, consuming your thoughts. The strangest part is, though, that they aren't themselves aren't any stronger. You've only opened yourself up to experiencing their full force. You feel yourself to the point of exhaustion.
That happened today, and I nearly suffocated. The tears pricked behind my eyes, and I thought I would lose it right there. I thought I would break down, sobbing, in front of my coworkers and a handful of strangers. Why?
I felt guilty. Oh, God. I felt awful. The minute he looked at me my stomach turned to knots. It felt hard, like a dead weight. It affected my ability to breathe. I wanted to run away. I know that look.
God, oh God, why? Every fucking time.
I shouldn't have felt guilty. Rationally, I know that; of course I do. But stuck in that moment, under the influence of a cold, functioning on too little sleep? Guilt. Cold, hard guilt that screwed itself into my chest until it was stuck tight. It taunted me to pull it out. Pull it out, be rid of the guilt . . . and bleed out on the floor.
I started getting flashes of other, similar faces: all hopeful, all about to be broken--because I'm a horrible person, I guess. It's the only explanation. Once is unfortunate, twice is a coincidence, three times and you're the issue. I'm the issue.
I'll have to see him again. I'll have to say, "Remember the other day?" Then downhill. I'll rip out that weighty shaft of guilt and arm myself with it. I'll turn it into aggression, into hurtful overconfidence. Do I have to? I think so. I've never known any another way.
Then his face--his face will fall and burn itself into my mind. It will join all the other faces--that wretched album of all the people I've hurt.
And the guilt will work itself back in.
Dear Ginger,
You wanna know something awesome? You. You are a total and complete manifestation of awesome.
You're beautiful, you're smart, and you're funny--really, truly.
The way you handled that pushy asshat at the union office: awesome. The way you handled that bimbo who ruined your lab assignment: awesome. Did you lose your cool? No, you did not. Remember that. You are poised and self-possessed, and no one can take that away from you.
I know this morning you woke up and you weren't feeling so hot. You were tired, anxious, and in the throes of a major cramp attack. But you know what, you powered through. You pulled out that makeup bag, popped that Rockstar gum, and faced the world head-on. You know what that is? Awesome. You are strong and determined. Those are intrinsic values of yours. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
You felt jealous today, didn't you, looking at all those couples? I know you try to avoid that vice as much as possible, but remember what they say: even the best of us, my darling. You didn't let yourself get sucked in, though. I'm really proud of you for that. You pulled yourself out of that pit and moved right along. You know what I'm going to say next, because I've said it a thousand times. You're awesome, and there's someone out there for you. There is someone made just for you, your perfect complement. All these lonely nights will be forgotten in the light of the love you will find. I promise.
You don't always believe these things about yourself. Sometimes, more often than you would like to admit, you look into the mirror with loathing. You feel so painfully not enough. You feel like you fall short of everything you need to be. Or worse, you feel that you're not even close, completely out of orbit. You feel ugly, and stupid, and overemotional, and slimy, and sick. You just want to crawl into bed and cry yourself to sleep.
The next time you feel that way, I want you to come back and look at this. I want you to read it slowly and carefully. I want you to absorb every word and accept it. I want you to remember the way you're feeling now, and believe that you will feel that way again.
Babe, you're awesome, and I love you.
xo Ginger
Purveyor of truth
An outcast by choice
You call yourself a victim
Trapped by conventions
Dying to break free
Funny how you mock me
Belittle all the
Things I have to say
Funny how it's not me
Screaming 'til I'm hoarse
So the Man backs down
Funny how that works, love
That you're feeling low
'Cause you're out place
Funny, when it all hit,
You turned and blamed me
For all that you'd done
Funny that I'm called weak
Utterly careless
The worst of the worst
When all I am is
Frightened and confused
Just trying to cope
Why is my first instinct to hide myself?I was talking with some people the other day--people my own age, normal people. It was going well, to my great surprise.
Don't let them know.
The thought reverberated clearly in my mind. It a suggestion offered up by my subconscious, very nearly a command. It stopped me in my tracks.
What?
Let them know what?
And then it hit me: myself. Don't let them know about me. Surely, if they knew me, they wouldn't be so cheerful, so willing to talk.
Because I'm a bad person? Maybe not. I'm tainted by the sin of the world, certainly, but I don't far surpass it. I hope. I'm aware of my shortcomings, at least, and I try my best. I don't think I'm a bad person.
But . . . perhaps I am. Perhaps that's what my internal self recognized.
If they ever found out about that, it says to me. Or this, or those other things. If they knew . . .
If they new, indeed. If they uncovered all the rips and stains that litter my heart and mind. I panic.
Oh God. Don't let them know. Don't let them know any of it.
My heart picks up, skips a beat, and stops. It restarts, shaky. They couldn't know, and never will. I wouldn't tell them. I will hide that part of me indefinitely.
A list in quickly compiled in my mind.
I should hide my thoughts--too strange. My opinions--they'll judge me. My dreams--they'll think they're stupid.
I can't tell them about the promotion--they'll be jealous.
I can't tell them how I'm doing--not really. They don't actually want to know.
So . . . what am I supposed to show them? What part of myself isn't "too this" or "too that" to expose to the world? Why do I think everything about myself is wrong?
Inner self, you're a bitch.
So, I'm different than some people. Than a lot of people. And that's okay.
I shouldn't hide myself because I'm afraid of reprisal. I should "hide" because they wouldn't appreciate what I have to offer. Does that make them stupid? No. Does it make me pretentious? No.
It just makes us different.
They wouldn't care a whit what I have to say on the theme of sexual abuse in Oedipus Rex; so I'll talk to them about the cute GM.
They're not interested in me unveiling the depths of my soul; so I'll keep the talk superficial.
You know what the funniest bit is? It's pleasant. Not every conversation needs to be life-changing. Sometimes, it's enough just to connect on a basic human level. To laugh together. To smile. To share a knowing wink.
So, we don't exegete Ulysses. My conversations with them are not riveting, intellectually satisfying, or otherwise noteworthy in the least. But when I'm with them, for the first time in a very long time, I feel utterly human.
And that, my friends, is worth more than any lecture hall has to offer.
I've experienced the profound relief of realizing what little impact I have on the world.
I walk around with all these grand delusions about what my presence has wrought, so to speak.
"Oh God, she must be torn up about what I said. She'll never, ever forget."
"I hope he'll be able to get over me forgetting about our study date."
"Will that clerk ever be able to recover from my short reply to him?"
Yes. Yes, they all will. You want to know why? Because I'm a fairly insignificant part of the world as a whole.
Thank God.
I didn't fuck it it up.
Everything is going to be all right. La vie continue--I don't have to carry this around with me anymore. A weight in my chest has just dissolved, a weight I didn't even know I was carrying around with me. I'm breathing easier. The scratching guilt in the back of my mind has ceased.
What a lovely feeling, to know that my actions did not bring about such serious consequences that, in my self-absorbed worldview, I believed they did.
I didn't fuck him up.
