Hazy

It's strange how your past comes creeping up on you when you least expect it.

"Hey, didn't we used to go to school together? I remember you."

Do you? I don't.

I wonder what she's remembering when she looks at me. I wonder who I was then. That whole time is painted black in my mind. I only remember snippets, frozen images. I don't have nearly enough to piece together a complete story.

I'm surprised she remembers me at all. I guess I must've had more of an effect there than I though . . . or maybe just a memorable face.

I remember her too. I remember all of them. All the faces, all the words, all the emotions rushing back--are they even real?

Why can't I remember myself?

He'll Never Leave Me

It seems that, for me, introspection is equivalent to pessimism. Whenever I'm "honest" with myself, I invariably point out everything that's wrong--whether it's an internal or external factor. I've been thinking a lot about relationships lately. I've worked myself into such a sad, paranoid corner. I'm so ready to point out every failed friendship, every broken romance that's ever come into my life. I hardly ever default, though, to focusing on all the beautiful ones.

I was reminded of one in particular today.

I'm not really sure how you would classify our relationship. He's the best friend I've ever had, to be certain, but he's also been a counselor. He's been with me through all the ups and downs, and has held my hand no matter how far I've fallen. His love for me has never been affected by mistakes I've made. He's never hesitated to forgive me. He's been constant all the years I've known him, and has never wavered in his principles or affections.

He is kindness, truth, and strength in my life.

He's taken care of me when I didn't have enough sense to take care of myself. He's been there waiting with open arms even when I've ignored him or been blatantly abusive. He's held me while I've cried. There are times when I've come to him a complete wreck, an incoherent, sobbing mess, and he doesn't think twice before scooping me up in his arms and hugging me close until I've quieted. He's tender, but he isn't afraid to correct me when I'm in the wrong.

I know that no matter what happens to me, I'll be okay, because he's in my life.

If only I could explain how I've acted towards him. I have been fickle in my love; I've lied to him; I've dropped him on a dime. I've turned on him in the company of others. I've up and left without any prior warning. I've screamed at him, insulted him, and have stomped on the kind things he's done. I've twisted his words, and thrown the perversions back in his face. I've consciously done things that I know upset him solely for the sake of twisting the knife.

Yet, he's always been there when I come crawling back. He doesn't judge me, doesn't say anything. He just smiles, knowing. He knows me so much better than I even know myself. He forgives me without my even having to ask. He throws away the past, and sets his eyes on our future.

He is so pure in his intentions that I'm brought to tears. He is the most wonderful man in the world, and I love him. I love him so much that I want to scream and sing it from the rooftops. He sets my entire being on fire, and every morning I wake excited to lose myself in him. It's awful what I've put him through, but he doesn't care, because he loves me more than his own life.

He's brought me into his family. He's shown me more tenderness and brought me more peace than I thought possible. I love him, I love him, I love him!

People try to shame me for our relationship, but I've stopped caring. He's the most beautiful thing in my life, and I'll tell anyone who asks.

I'm not afraid anymore.

Inevitability

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.

I should preface by saying that many of my relationships are healthy--that is to say, the established ones. There's a reason, though, why I can count so few people as my close friends. I'm awful in new relationships. I'm neurotic and obsequious. It's not that I lose myself, but in my desperate attempt to make a connection, I tend to shove myself away. I hang on tenterhooks waiting to speak to a potential friend again. It would be pitiful if it wasn't so off-putting.

I suppose most people don't consciously notice it. We all love attention and flattery, so it would take a peculiarly aware--dare I say, abnormal--person to find my behavior unappealing. Inevitably, however, this new-found connection will pass on, done with me. Don't take it the wrong way, most people don't do this maliciously. It's natural to make transitions in life, and if you find yourself becoming bored with activities or conversations, well: by all means, transition. Never mind that all those actions and words are attached to a person. Never mind that she cares so much more than you.

If I may backtrack for a moment, I want to address the nature of inevitabilities. They, in and of themselves, are not so bad, I think. Humans are so marvelously resilient. If we're thrown down, we jump back up. If we fail one way, we try another. It's the drive to never give up, to keep on against the odds, to test out limits in survival. So, then, when we face an inevitability, we aren't thrown off course. We recognize the situation and do what we must to make ourselves comfortable with the outcome. (Not in altogether healthy ways, at times, but the point isn't lost.)

It isn't the inevitable failure of friendship itself that I fear, it's the circumstances surrounding it. I hate not knowing the when, where, and why. The knowledge is so impossibly general, so abstract, that I find myself unable to move past it. When a friendship is ended it isn't just that you have one less person in your life--it's the emotional upheaval, the physical loss of presence, and a cache full of aching memories. That's what I fear, and that's what I know nothing of.

I wish I could be brave and say, "Here's my heart, don't fucking break it." That's what I want to say, but I can never bring myself to. The truth is that they can break it, tear it, constrict it, riddle it full of holes, just as long as they don't let go. Don't let go, and you can treat me how you like. I feel connected to you, I may even love you--please don't drop me.

The worst part is, I haven't found another way. When I hide myself, they move on. When I let myself shine through our encounters, they move on faster. I feel so tossed around that when I finally make that connection--when I'm able to take hold of something solid--I'm so starved and desperate that I overcompensate. I'm so fearful of losing it that I don't dare let myself show and compromise the situation.

Call it codependency. Call it neuroses. Call it low self-esteem.

I call it justifiable fear.

Snow White Disgusts Me

I will never ever never let my kids read Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Or watch the movie. Or own the Barbie. Never.

You want to know why?

Because it's disgusting, that's why.

At first glance it seems okay, right? The seven little men living alone in the woods is, admittedly, a bit weird. However, who are we to judge? But that's at first glance.

The other day, I was pondering over this particular work of fiction. Why? I asked myself, do the dwarfs have such strange names? And why is Snow White so nice? And why did Disney deviate so far from the original story in the creation of the movie?

Then the oh-so-true truth dawned on me. The sick, horrible truth: Snow White is a commercial endorsement of drug use, psychosis, and mild disorders.

Allow me to expound:

Doc

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.

Dopey

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).

Sleepy

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.

Sneezy

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.)

Grumpy

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).

Bashful

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.

(It may be worth mentioning here that most of the dwarfs are burgeoning alcoholics, courtesy of Doc. It was unavoidable, really, given that alcohol is the universal substance to abuse.)

Happy

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.

Snow White

If you thought the dwarfs were bad, just wait 'til I fill you in on Snow White. Although she doesn't participate in substance abuse (on a regular basis), Snow White does have deep and concerning psychoses. First and foremost, she displays indulgence in fantasies and escapism (through manual labor) to such an extent that she is barred from reality. We first see this shown in the beginning when she is singing that "one day her prince will come" while performing tedious and strenuous cleaning under the abusive jurisdiction of her stepmother. These could very well have stemmed from a desperate attempt to put up walls against her stepmother's maltreatment, having evolved in such a way that she has mentally separated herself from this plane. Another point of interest is her weak-to-the-point-of-nonexistent personal boundaries and a thwarted maternal drive that we see manifested when she joins up with the dwarfs. Perhaps these are just subsets of her fantasies (refer to her seemingly inherent need for a prince?), or another thing altogether, but we've got trouble in River City either way.

I won't even bother asking if I've converted you, because I know I have

To Whom It May Conern

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.

Guilty

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.

Wham, Bam, Thank You Ma'am!

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