I wont tell them your name...

Someone asked me to tell them a story about something I did in high school that was crazy. And so I started to think about myself in high school and my brain wasn’t flooded with the loneliness I felt nor was I reminded of the teenage angst I had but rather the few close friends I had when I was in high school and the stupid things we did.
My friend Kristin probably could have convinced me that the sky was purple and it was the reason we had to ditch our next class (generally the class following our lunch period.) Or maybe it was that I didn’t need convincing to know that whatever we did instead would be epic.

One particular morning as Kristin and I were walking to class from the lower parking lot of our ever massively sprawled out school I watched as Kristin pretty much ate dust and I can’t remember if she broke her zipper or if this was the time she tore her jeans. It was just before our first class and as she fell I remember laughing because she was carrying a Frappacino in her hand and I saw as she risked impact with her face to the dirt so that she would not break the starbucks glass bottle. Really, the fact that Kristin fell wasn’t the shocker; she would trip on a daily basis so it wasn’t like “remember that time you ate shit?” Because the answered for her would be “Which time?” it was that she stood up, looked at me and said, “Ugh, lets just go home.” So we turned around not even taking more than 15 steps onto campus and left.

Or how I was in the same spot as the fall incident when she approached me said, “My zippers busted, lets go get ice cream.” And again, I we left sliding into the seats of my ever-growing trashcan of a red Honda civic and bailing on yet another class.

It’s not that I’m all for ditching classes because I really did love school, it was a time in my life when I was able to focus on something that wasn’t my life. I could fade into the history lesson and be warped into whatever time period we spoke about. It was a time when I could slide into seat at the back of the class and slouch into my own little world and be safe from my real life. But there was something about the times Kristin and I were together that fills me with such joy and nostalgia.

Like the time we left class both dressed in black skirts and heels and decided that taking my 88 Honda civic off road would be the best idea we’ve ever had. Okay, in Hein sight I see why the car died. Would I have done it differently? I’m not sure, because wouldn’t it figure that the road we’re on out in the middle of Marana that happens to have less traffic would be the road that suddenly became I-10 when one afternoon after a rain I would get my car stuck in a wash. She’d warned me before I did it “That’s a wash” she said as I turned the wheel and within moments was spinning my tires and burring my poor “Putt-Putt” deeper into the sand.

While attempting to dig the car out or push it backwards we would duck behind the car whenever another car passed feeling like idiots for being stuck in the wash and unwilling to accept assistance until it became finally clear that there was no way my car was going to come unstuck and someone had to pull it out.

So maybe I wasn’t the most popular girl and maybe among an 800+ student body I seemed to melt into the unknown, but I was definitely somebody to the few friends I had and I looking back on my high school years I remember the funny moments spent with some incredible friends. Most of us survive high school because of the friends we have, I continue to survive life because of these same friends.

Between the line of Fear and Blame...

I remember sitting in my office at work, my head hung down and propped in my hands. I had just come off “Grandma Watch” as my cousin Elspeth had just gotten in the night before with her son. My eyes were swollen from crying, my body ached from the lack of sleep and my head pounded with the replay of our last argument.

When my grandmother fell ill and my aunt needed to return home to take care of things I was assigned the task of staying the night and helping her with things when I was off work and during the day various of our relatives would come stay with her.

It was always important to my grandma that I did work and that I never took time off. She often scolded me when she got wind of a day or time off that I took when it was not necessary in her book. Which meant everything. Nothing was necessary to her. Doctor’s appointments should be scheduled before or after work, or during lunch.

I remember our last fight being about my inability to cope with her situation. I read about others ability to cope and deal with being a nurse to their dying family and I hang my head in shame. I told her I couldn’t deal with it. I told her that it was hurting me so bad to see her the way she was. She was scared enough and I told her I couldn’t handle it. As if she didn’t have enough on her plate, she yelled violently at me, as she was known to do. She let her words whip out in anger and they cut sharp into the core of my being. Her venom sunk in as I cried. I cried for her, I cried to a god I didn’t believe in and I begged for her to get better.

That would be the last lucid moment I would have with her before delirium took its toll. And so I sat the following morning after this fight, breathing, thinking and trying to recoil myself from the past nights. I needed to get away; I needed to take a deep breath away from this tragedy that I was facing.

I picked up my phone and sent a text to my roommate.

“Lets go to CA tonight” and I pressed send.

I started my day’s work burying my emotions into printing, labeling and mailing documents that needed to be sent. In the last few weeks of my grandmother’s life I spent much of my time at work alone, away from everyone, which was strange in that I was the social butterfly of the office. Throughout that Friday I sent texts back and forth between my three friends Michelle (The Roommate), Nora, and Kat; mapping out the plan of driving San Diego, getting a hotel room and spending the day at the beach then returning that following night.

What I thought was just wishful thinking turned out to be something I truly needed. Hyundai Accent packed we grabbed our cameras, one ken doll, some clothes, drinks and stuffed our four bodies into the two door egg and began our trip. The night was cool and the car was soon filled with the scent of cigarettes and laughter. With Michelle and I taking turns on driving and Nora and Kat fading in and out of sleep for most of the ride. Well, mostly Nora slept; Kat did her best to be part of the crazy antics. The car ride included many energy drinks, a few packs of cigarettes (on my friends part), a few games of “Car flirting” and a couple guys flashed but most of all it included lots a laughter.

We wouldn’t get into California until a little after 3 AM and daylight was approaching fast so we settled on a Super 8 right off Interstate 8 on the hotel circle a few miles from beach. I remember sneaking Kat and Nora in the hotel room because we didn’t want to pay the extra for the two other people and staking claim on the half of the one queen bed before giggling off to sleep.

That trip we did exactly as we had planned. We spent the day at the beach getting burned and enjoying the cool Pacific Ocean. Laughed as waves knocked us over into each other, one specific time when my 5’3 friend came colliding face first into my boobs and the other face first into my butt because of a strong wave that knocked us all off our feet. I remember laughing so hard I had to walk to shore and sit on the surf because I couldn’t keep standing.

I look back and think about sitting on the beach snapping pictures of Ken on the beach, and watching seagulls swoop down and nabbing bits of Jalepeno Cheddar Cheetos or more specifically the seagull that had Nora shouting “Oh my god he took the fucking cup!” As one gracefully swooped down and grabbed an entire Styrofoam cup and flew off. And then we both threw ourselves back on our towls in laughter tears streaming from our eyes.
The day on the beach ended with a trip to Horton Plaza, a mall in downtown San Diego where I met up with a friend in California and allowed him to tear into me as no one has ever had with jokes. We laughed, joked, jabbed at each other and he starred at me like no other guy has before in my life. He saw through my tired hazel eyes and then did what any normal sarcastic individual such as myself would do. He tore into me like it was a Comedy Central Roast of Jennie, and I was still laughing.

Looking back I know I should have been spending every waking moment with my grandma and if I had known that the weekend before Easter would be her last weekend Alive I would have. But also looking back I realized that weekend with my friends on the beach saved me from myself. It saved me from falling into my own self-doubt; it saved me from crawling into a dark tunnel and lying there until everything blew over which as it is, still hasn’t.

My godmother Peggy said this to me Christmas Eve; “It seems like its only getting worse with time, its not getting better.” And I agreed.
Losing my grandma almost 2 years ago and I still can’t bring myself to erase her numbers from my phone. I still take a deep breath when I manage to scroll past her name. I still reach for the phone when I want to know what I’m supposed to turn the oven to when I need to make speedy fruit pie (aka peach cobber.) When I made green Jello over Thanksgiving at Kathleen’s house I looked for her body to be next to me on a stool asking me for some type o seasoning. I still drive past her house when I’m in town.
She was more than my grandmother, she was the person who tried with all her abilities to make sure my siblings and I had somewhat of a normal life. She saved my family from a life on the streets. She came from the school of “tough love.” And I have her to thank for my “spiky-ness”, my dry sense of humor and unfortunately, my nose. She gave me the gift of life so many times over.

But I know that without Nora, Kat & Michelle and our escape to California when I returned early Easter Morning and she was gone the next day, I know that weekend would have been more than I could bear. And so, I don’t regret taking off, I don’t regret the escape. I just wish I could have been a stronger person for Jean, for my grandmother in her last week of life.

I'll pretend...

What is it about a broken heart that makes us want to pick ourselves off the floor and become the opposite of who we used to be? Why do we allow another person the control to leave us breathing haphazardly on the floor and wondering what we did wrong? What words where said that shouldn’t have been said?

What is it about heartache that makes us question everything we ever stood for and everything that we have become? Maybe if I was thinner, prettier, beautiful or more quite. What if I was more punk, or rock instead of who I am now?

Why do I have to change to be better? “It’s not you, it’s me.” I can’t deal with such bullshit spoon fed to people when a person cannot come up with something better or true to say, they use a cop out and that cop out leaves the broken hearted trying to figure out where they went wrong.

If only I’d talked more when we first met, was darker, older, smarter, or thinner.

I’m over feeling like I’m the problem.

Numbness for Sound

Eight years ago my life was marked with a moment that like the assassination of J.F.K would be a sharing point. Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day?

I was laying cold and alone in my apartment on Prince and Stone. Shivering beneath a blanket my alarm went off and news coverage was blaring talking about fires and buildings and people falling from them. I hit snooze and turned over, five more minutes I thought, I just need more sleep. But then, at this particular point in my life, sleep was all I ever wanted. I never wanted to be awake because to be awake meant I had to feel, to face another day. To battle my demons. The radio went off again, still news reports, I shut it off, got up and readied myself for the day.

I remember driving up 1st avenue towards Ina listening to the local 93.7 station and thinking, “God, John Jay and Rich are freaking ridiculous, are they trying to do another war of the worlds type broadcast? These clowns will stop at nothing.”

And then I switched to another station, and then another, and then another it was all the same broadcast. When I entered my classroom an eerie paralysis fell over everyone, TV’s were on everywhere and everyone was watching live coverage of New York City with its skyline covered in smoke and the twin towers on fire. Terrorist had struck the towers with planes and people were dying. My mind became numb and in the next series of weeks I fought my love for the country with my doubts. How could we let this happen? I decided that united we sucked because we should have seen something like this coming. Something had hit home for Americans and we spent the next year mourning it.

So why revisit this moment in the wake of Christmas? I when I was 23, I was fortunate enough to see the World Trade Center construction site for the first time. I was consumed by this chilling feeling, as I stood outside of gates that posted signs “Authorized Personnel Only” peeking through to look at what remained of what once was two massive buildings in the New York Skyline. When I was 24, I saw the two bright beams in the sky in remembrance of the catastrophic events that took place September 11, 2001 and I was taken back, gasped in awe of the tribute among the darkened cloudy skies.



And then this weekend after many trips by it I stepped into St. Paul’s Cathedral, the church that stood across the street from the World Trade Center, the same church that only suffered the loss of a massive oak, but left the rest of the building untouched, unharmed. I walked its grave yard path, looking at each tombstone, snapping pictures and capturing the moment. Nothing would prepare me for the wave of emotion that would come over me the moment I stepped into the hallowed out church.

People swarmed the areas, pausing moments at erected memorials for the lives lost. The church smelled of an old book, dusted off and brought to life. I paused a moment to “To The Heroes” one message wrote from Crawford Elementary at Eielson Air Force Base in Alaska. Teddy bears, cards, notes, ribbons, balloons and flowered covered this spontaneous memorial that was erected in the following weeks after the fall of the towers. My hands trembled as I reached for my camera and snapped a photograph.


I moved on to the next, a statue of a figure covered in serviceman patches from all over the country. People gathering to show support for people they’d never met but felt a connection felt a need to be there for. For a moment I was there, could it even be possible for this type of transference? For me to feel the weight of the lives lost that day? To feel the pain these people felt having never lost anyone to something so heartless and tragic?



I moved to the center of the church pausing a moment at the altar to find my faith again. I knelt down, made the sign of the cross and stood. “Forgive me father for I have sinned,” I murmured to myself.

Looking up at the place where each mass would pronounce our sins washed away with the blood and body of Christ I realized that I hadn’t been in a church since my grandmother died almost 2 years ago. I had not felt my soul cleansed by theses sacrifices, and then I found myself standing in that church, a believer again.

I scanned the patrons of the church, some sitting, some praying looking up and to the back of the church a banner hung below the Organ read “To New York City and all the Rescuers: Keep Your Spirits up… Oklahoma Loves you!!” All over the banner were words and signatures from people again lifting their hearts and showing support.



“Artist Jessica Stammen used steel provided by city officials from the World Trade Center debris as the base for this 14-pound chalice. She cast a bronze sculpture of a tree trunk to evoke the Sycamore tree in St. Paul’s Churchyard that was struck down in the attacks. Two beams extend from the tree to represent the twin towers and the hands of gold enfold the top of the cup.”



Art really can move you. Even in the form of a cup or a Chalice. I stood there for a few moments in aw of what someone had created how they had so deliberately evoked an emotion in the strength of the piece but also the vulnerability of it all.

It was the final place I stopped to take in the loss of 9/11 that my emotions finally caved in. I stood staring at the ripped edges of an un-open birthday card that Read “Happy 40th Birthday” in cursive across the blue city-dirtied envelope. What was it about this card that crushed my nerve so quickly? Was it the fact that someone never got to read it? That the content of the card was like a postsecret secret waiting to be read, and a story to be told? Or was it the millions of pictures of people lost that day. Posted by friends and family.

Eight-years later and am humbled by an experience that moved me in ways I will never be able to articulate through words or art. Perhaps the danger of being human is more often than not that we are able to feel. I never thought something could have that big of an effect on me and as I was standing outside in the cool December air I looked to my side and saw my best friend standing there, both silent. I sucked in air, wiped my face and felt thankful for her, for everything that I have.

Recently I sent a short e-mail to my sister-in-law asking her what I should get for my nephews for Christmas, being across the country I’ve fallen out of step as to what they are into. I’m usually the boring aunt who is so enamored with fashion so much that I love buying clothes for my nephews. I enjoy dressing them in my own unique pull together of different things to create an outfit. I know as kids, this is annoying. Clothes on Christmas are completely boring and unwanted.

This year I was set on getting them toys of some sort. I remember I had made a phone call to Josh on his 3rd birthday. I spoke with him about what he did for his birthday and he explained to me that they sang a different kind of “Boothday” song. I smiled as I listened to how smart he was and how well he spoke remembering his brother’s early grasp of words and speech. When I asked to speak with Jeremiah the first words out of his mouth were, “Aunt Jennie, can you get me Legos for Christmas?”



I laughed but part of me hurt a little. Not that he was asking me for things, but that the distance that I had pushed between him and I had made it so that my only real responsibility in his eyes was to bring him presents when I saw him.


I had always been around in Jeremiah’s life watching many of his mile stones, living with my brother for much of Jeremiah’s early life provided connection. I was there to play with him, and show him how to throw up “the goat” and how to say “Rock and Roll!” or how to sing “Everybody backstreet’s back” Even though all he really ever said was “backstreet All right!” I took pride in introducing him to different types of music. I loved taking him to the movies, something that my Aunt had done for me, I wanted to do for him. Movies were our special thing, an outing when we would gorge ourselves on popcorn and share a drink. I watched cartoons with him and tickled him until he couldn’t breathe.



Of course living with him also gave him this “little brother” annoyance factor. Babysitting with him gave me this idea that I had to help keep him in line when he went off on one of his tantrums. I really lived by the tough love rule in my mind but often found it exhausting to keep up with all the constant changes and the lack of support from other older influences on Jeremiah. But I always look back on times when we would sit on my bed and he would have my headphones on listening to whatever it was I played for him.


When I think of him, I think of how within the first weeks or so of him being born I sat in his room on the floor listening to him breathe, the radio on low. He was so precious and little, the first baby in the family and my very first taste of what being an Aunt was.

And Then Joshua came along and I was an aunt two times over. His smile would light up the room and he had his own little personality budding along. He was clever and happy and Jeremiah was a good brother always fawning over his new little brother making sure he was okay. I knew that I wanted to be just as much apart of Josh’s life as I was his brother. I wanted to see all the milestones, to take him to the movies as my aunt did my sister and I. To show him how to do the “goat” and say “rock and roll.”




But then I wedge the country between us when I decided I needed to spread my own wings and fly. I’ve only spent a little over a year in New Jersey, but when I read the e-mail from my sister-in-law when she told me that Josh was a size 4T and Jeremiah was a size 7, I choked a little. The last time I checked, Jeremiah was still a 5T and Josh was 2T. I know very little about Josh now and almost nothing about Jeremiah. I no longer know what he’s really into and what things he likes. I’m not watching each of their milestones, I don’t get to see first hand the silly things they do, I can only see through pictures posted and I feel a little guilty for it.



It was very hard for me to leave them behind and still is. I am fortunate enough to be part of two other little boys lives as my job and it helps, but it definitely does not replace the love and the heartache I feel for how much I miss my nephews.

Feeling blue...

I’m so tired of feeling so rejected and being sad.

I had a relatively good weekend with my family, which is actually a first. Most family events leave me crying or extremely angry. This weekend was good – for once my sister and I didn’t fight – although the last night there I could feel one bubbling and inching its way forward. I tried not to react to things in the same way I used to. It felt so good to go somewhere and actually be wanted, to be embraced and awaited. And I really needed it. I needed the moments where I felt like part of something.

I figured coming home would mean people missed me and wanted to see me. But I came home to a dark house. It was depressing. I came home to no one. My cat still miffed at my disappearance wasn’t even willing to offer some kind of pet comfort. She looked at me, sniffed at me and then went off.

I hate that I need people so much. I hate that coming home to nothing has pushed me into tears, to loneliness and sadness.

I hate knowing how I should feel but not being able to feel that. It’s like trying to scream, but no words come out.

“We are afraid to care too much, for fear that the other person does not care at all.” – Eleanor Roosevelt

I want to write something good... (long)

With my past few posts being depressing and sad, I felt it would be good for me to post and or write something good.

After my trip to NYC this past Sunday I left my beloved city with a sense of renewal and awareness. It was by far one of the better trips I have ever been on to the city and it just made me feel so alive when I have felt so dead.

While we were walking through the park I was snapping pictures when suddenly I heard a saxophone playing and my eyes almost instantly welled with tears. I really have no connection with a sax that should truly bring me to tears the way it almost did. There is no real back story where I can say something along the lines of "My grandpa So and so used to play me sax as a kid" or something to that effect, all I have is an imagination and a proposed idea that I made up. About a year ago, for my writing 101 class I wrote a descriptive essay about where I see myself in the future and this is what I wrote...

The light radiated through my window as I lay in bed resisting the urge to wake up. I could feel the warmth of the sun creeping across the floor and my bed, like a caterpillar inching slowly along. I knew before long I would not be able to resist the bright sunshine, thinking to myself that it would be a perfect day to take the camera out and see if I could capture a few decent pictures of fall in the city.

It wasn’t long before the coolness of the wood floors touched my bare feet and I was up walking around my twelfth floor apartment. Strolling by the bright window I remembered why I had made the splurge to pay the steep monthly rent; the view was breathtaking. I paused only momentarily to take in the landscape before I walked away to start getting ready for the day.

By the time I had showered and dressed, my apartment was filled with the rich smell of fresh coffee. The smell alone is almost enough to keep me up for hours. It reminds me of Saturday morning breakfast with my Aunt back when I was in college. I smile at the memory, grabbing my favorite coffee mug; filling it with the aromatic, dark, and steaming hot liquid.

I remember, I had always wanted a very open loft-style apartment with big open windows that would view the city, so it was no wonder that when I found this place that it would be my personal heaven. I stare into the vast and sparsely furnished room with a bed in one corner. Standing in the middle of the room, you could see one large window that covered the entire length of the apartment and from it, I saw what some people only see in pictures. Tall jutting up towers that loomed over the sidewalks below that were always bustling with people.

At 7 A.M business men already hurrying off to work in their expensive Armani suits, kids walking with their parents; lunch pails in tow and college students with their futures ahead of them; ready to be molded, carrying books that would talk about famous philosophers and how the West was won. Below, the streets were no longer lined with the mountains of black trash bags placed at the curb almost nightly by owners of restaurants or stores below me. Cars are already beginning to cram the streets stuck in tight, like sardines waiting desperately to get through the light. Car horns blast incessantly. Glancing over the city below, I am reminded by the scarlet red and pumpkin orange leaves sprouting from tree lined streets what my mission for today is.

As I open the door, the brisk cold air from the October air greets me, stinging my cheeks slightly as gusts of wind howl through the valley of skyscrapers that dominate above me. Once outside, the exotic smells of the city invade my senses. Today it’s a mixture of freshly baked bread and car exhaust, with a sprinkle of wood from the fires people burned in the previous night to keep their places warm. I take a step onto the leaf littered sidewalk and a billow of steam arises up from streets. The ground below me starts to quake from the roar of the subway.

I set out on my journey uptown to Central Park with camera in tow and the music of the city ringing in my ear. The music starts with the gentle sounds of steam being released causing a high scream and then a symphony of sounds join in, cars honking, a siren as a police car attempts to squeeze by jammed traffic on official business, people talking on cell phones and bags rustling in the wind. In the distance I can hear the lonely sounds of someone playing a saxophone; the music wails its story of love lost as my steps fall in line with the drumming of the city.

I am tempted by new smells almost every block, the smell of freshly made hot chocolate lingers in the air and a bouquet of flowers lures me and I think that I would love to have this on my table because of a single flower sitting like a lone wolf on a table. However, I know I won’t be home until later so I settle for a quick snapshot and enter the a corner store for a bottle of water.

Greeted by a bell; the sounds of the morning news on a small TV set located behind the counter, two Indian men talking in their native tongue, and a strange mix of foreign smells. The older man nods his head towards me greeting me with a smile, “Morning Miss.” I smile back, nodding, and head to the back of the store. Again I am tempted by the array of offerings in this small market. I grab a pack of Starburst and a bottle of water then bring my selections to the counter. The younger man rings up my purchases. “Tree-fifty” he says, so I pay and head back out into the chilled air. The bell jingles as I open the door.

Before long I am at a smaller opening into the park, excited to start snapping pictures. Already people have gathered to read their morning paper on the benches and men with horse drawn carriages begin to set up for the day’s work.

“Carriage ride miss?” one man offers petting the mane and neck of his mare.

“No thank you, I think I’ll do this one on foot,” I respond holding up my camera indicating my intentions.

He nods to me and I walk through the stonewalled opening, leaves crunching below me. My world becomes a bit darker as the leaves still on the trees shade me from the warmth of the sun. I pull my coat around me tighter, tying off the waist to hold it, and begin snapping pictures. I pay close attention to the birds chirping and watch how they dart in and out of bushes. I watch particularly close to what I can assume to be a lovers’ quarrel among two small gray and white birds. They squawk at each other fluttering their wings and moving about in a circular motion before one flies deeper into the park.

Again, I hear the wailing of the saxophone, this time more upbeat and before long I can hear someone plucking strings on a guitar. I follow the sound through the park where specks of light are allowed to squeeze through the bone like fingers of branches and leaves above. Before long I am at an opening. An old and weathered man dressed in a brown suit sits on a dirt encrusted bucket playing a worn and darkened saxophone. The sounds of the pads opening and closing on the saxophone can be heard underneath the tranquilizing melodies. Next to him is a boy, dressed in jeans and a black hooded sweater sitting cross-legged on the ground. He cradles a guitar in his lap, his fingers work the strings like a painter works a brush on canvas, each note is delivered flawlessly.

I notice the soft clink of change as it lands on the soft but worn velvety surface of an open guitar case and then the flutter of a dollar bill as it slowly cascades, joining more change and bills. Watching them play I am reminded why I love New York. The diversity comes rushing at you like waves lapping up on a beach shore.

A cool wind sends chilled fingers across my exposed cheeks; slowly I lift my camera, centering the frame upon the brick wall background and the two men working side by side. The camera clicks I am again reminded of why I am living the life I’ve always dreamed.

Basically my walk through central park was exactly this, okay there was no guitar player with the guy, I don't have a penthouse suite in a massively tall building.

I did however get rockstar parking on 70th and Central Park west, I ate a hot dog from a street vendor and got a bottle of coke. The leaves were changing and the air was beautiful. I almost cried because when I wrote this, I wrote it with the expectation that it would happen years from now.

If you asked me last June if I saw myself living a dream, I would have told you no. I would never have imagined that something I thought up would be something possible. The "almost tears" were purely because I was in public, had I been alone, had I had this epiphany on my own I know I would have cried. I would have cried because knowing that I accomplished something renewed my sense of direction. It gave me hope.

Okay, so I'm not a professional photographer yet, I'm working on it!

A cry for help answered.

It’s interesting how someone you used to talk to on a daily basis can disappear but then reappear at exactly the right time.

In a spill all moment I have to confess that my last two months have been anything but pleasurable. The week before my birthday I manage to hit a speed bump in my brain that disabled my ability to cope with anything. I slipped into this dark monster of despair and have yet to fully come up for air. With my 25th birthday approaching my mind sloped, as did my sense of reason. I attempted the first bout of suicidal thoughts and desires. I consumed an entire bottle of cherry rum within a ten-minute span. This was a bad choice and I later learned that I needed to space the consumption for maximum effect. My target of choice, being death by alcohol poisoning.

My reasons behind my desire to seek the closest exit stemmed a lot from my own mental anguish and feeling of inadequacy. Furthermore I was pushed by my inability to let go of my past demons and a need to be comforted and supported in my darkest hour. Comfort that did not come, as I would have liked it to. Is it even fair to be choosy at this time? I wonder? My failure to actually succeed in what I was planning left me deeper than when I had started. I managed to shake myself off, stand up and push further, each of life’s potholes pushing me off course and bringing me back into the dark circle.

With a stint in the hospital over Halloween, I found myself falling into despair with loneliness and sadness. But also these same hopes of death crept ever so slowly back into my mind. This time, the physical pain matching the mental pain that I had. Learning from previous attempts to speak out and express my feelings, I bottled them as well, filed under “Jennie-you-are-stupid.” Because that is how I felt and feel about my suicidal thoughts. My sense of self worth has been severely compromised and the things that I once found joy from are bland and colorless.

My hand reached out for a friend but was quickly bitten, snapped, my feelings belittled and criticized. To those around me, I was choosing to be like this. This was something I could control, just wake up and feel “all better”. Unfortunately, I knew from experience and books that I’d read that what I was feeling wasn’t going to change by just waking up. The truth of the matter being I needed “help.”

The problem is, I don’t find psychologist or therapy as an acceptable form of assistance. I also do not believe in mental medication as aid. I’m kind of a strong believer in self-help and assistance. I believe the mind is a beautiful thing and that it has the power to over come it just takes some conditioning and time. But I also believe that in this process it is important to have people to back you, to be there for you when you need it and give you positive reinforcement. This is the problem I face because those I have around me rarely look at my problem as something that is serious and often place blame on me because of convenience. My breakdowns to not fit into people lives And let’s be honest, it’s not really convenient for me to have this break down now. I have school and a job to maintain and I can’t actually take a mental health break as much as I would love to, I’ve used up my days for that when I was in the hospital.

Cut to this past week. After being released from the hospital my mind was still not in the right place and social situations with friends got awkward and then my brain slipped into its abyss-like madness. I attempted round two of suicide by trying to OD on drugs. Cue failure again. And with that attempt three followed with Tylenol and an attempt to cut my wrist, however, being that I am not a fan of pain, I am left with some dumb scratches and a stomachache, which just adds to the fact that I haven’t been able to consume food in the past week without puking, since my emotions control my stomach.

Still saddened by my ill-fated attempts I raise and go to work and then my phone goes off and I see a message from a friend from my teenage years. “Hey, How are you?” he questions. “I’ve had better days.” I respond as I follow the curious 1-year-old around the grassy yard. “How so?” He inquires. “Oh besides the 3 failed attempts at suicide?” I click back on the keyboard not sure of why I am divulging this information so early on. “Why do you want to die?” he asks and I can feel that his questions are not judgmental but concerned. “What are you so unhappy about?” my phone beeps back. I think for a second, my life isn’t that bad. I have a decent job and I am doing fairly well in school thus far, but my brain is plagued with emotions and lack of support. I am angry and I feel alone so I tell him this. I spend the next 5 hours intermittently texting him back and forth answering each prying question with utter and complete honestly. He ends the conversation with “You have my number, the next time you feel like you’re ready to go, call me.” I read the words over in my mind, roll them around. I have had people saying I could talk to them, but is the first time that I feel like my needs were met. All the right questions were asked and all the right responses were given. I can feel myself move slightly up in my hole.

Someone stopped to say, “How are you?” and didn’t have a hidden agenda; there were no personal influences. He was not upset by my feelings and he was not disgusted. He did not take personal offense to anything I said, but asked me questions and allowed me to talk… So maybe I could rethink this therapist thing…

I never meant to start a war...

So without fail my life seems to have flipped itself upside down. I was walking pretty strong with most things in my life, while my emotional side wavered and constantly took abrupt stops and dips, financially and physically, I was okay. I managed to survive a year in a new place, where I knew very few. It was something I could be proud of. I was able to help friends for a chance instead of everyone always helping me. And even thought emotionally I was blustery, I was good.

When I decided to quit my full-time job and take on a part time job as a nanny so I could go back to school and really concentrate, I thought I was doing something for the good. I thought, yes, finally I’m doing something I can be happy with; I’m finally making those steps to accomplish my goal. Even if it is a goal I question now and look back on with much skepticism, at least I was doing something right?

Mostly, I didn’t want to work for the company I was working for, at the end of the day, I didn’t feel like I was doing something I could be confident in. I didn’t feel good about myself, I felt like I was a sneak, and that what the business did was deceiving and something I couldn’t allow myself to do. And so, as luck would have it, the day I was to return to work after a surgery, a family I had interviewed with offered me a position as nanny to two little boys. I jumped. I was so excited that finally someone looked past my obviously questionable appearance and took a chance. And things have gone pretty good.

Cue disasters.

Financially, quitting my full time job was stupid. Financially, I figure I had everything planned, with financial aid I thought could really keep myself afloat for the few months, I had saved and conserved some money to assist me with this. I didn’t factor in getting ill, having to go to doctors, having to have my car towed twice and having to buy parts (some, not all) for the car. I had only factored in what I needed to make it month to month with some going into savings. I didn’t plan enough and so I sank. Or rather, am sinking. And then I spent 4 days in a hospital, not sure how that bill is being paid for… But I suppose I will cross that bridge when I get there…. Or maybe I’ll just jump off it.

With this financial instability, I found that my emotional problems began to weigh more on my mind. My desire to be independent of people collided heavily with my co-dependent personality. My desire to help clashed with my selfish need to be helped. My need for love collided with my lack of love I have for myself. My need to be in the spotlight infringed upon a want to be unnoticed. I wanted this, and that, but couldn’t articulate how to get them or how to meet these needs. My thirst to be normal complicated my need to also be different, unique and desired.

Words I’d said in the past continued to haunt me even while I was attempting to make changes. When I would crash into these past demons, I found myself reacting the same as I had then, with more anger and resentment that I was unable to be free of things I had long apologized for. My frustrations were growing, my mind was sinking, financially I was in muddy water and I fell.

I fell deep and I fell hard. And I have yet to actually pick myself up and shake myself off. However, my desire to push forward has faded. Before, I always had a small motivational factor that would push me through, whether it be my need to be something more, to rise above, or be it a friend who’s need for me held me somewhat grounded. Something always made me get back up, dust myself off and try again. Something always made me laugh, made me smile, and made me see light in a dark tunnel.

I find that I’ve run out of “some things” to keep me moving. I’ve lost my ability to find a silver lining. I’ve lost my hope and my desire, my drive to live and my thirst for adventure. I function now only because its what is expected and what should be. No longer for myself, I continue to go to class, do the required work and attempt to pass. I wake up and go to work, do the required time and return home. And maybe that makes my only driving factor the idea of what is expected of me. I am expected to pay my bills and contribute to society. I am expected to take care of my responsibilities. I am an adult now so I am expected to answer as such. But I would rather hole myself off, breathe and attempt to heal these scars, these wounds that continue to break open festering with vile infections that slowly are rotting me…

Secrets

My secrets are just that.
They are not yours to share.
They are a story,
That is not yours to tell.

Where has my heart gone?

It’s pretty late and the agenda for tomorrow keeps running through my brain wake up, class, drive Emily to work, come home and sleep, pick Emily up from work and bring her home, go to class again, go to work. And then Friday’s schedule is already running through my brain. It seems that my life has boiled down to schedules and what I have to do and when. Fitting in time for me to just decompose doesn’t seem to be part of the plan.

I walked around zombie-like Tuesday, my eyes puffy from the night of tears and frustration. I had fallen into a coma of self-doubt and hate. And while things have improved, the general feeling is still the same. Perhaps this is what happens when one nears a new age that comes as a milestone. I will be 25 in just a couple of days and I feel as if I have gone now where with my life. I watch all of my friends married about to have kids or already have kids. Some are buying houses and holding down their forts. I’m roughly at the stage in life where most 19-year-olds are beginning their path to self-discovery. I think I’ve already taken that path of “self-discovery” and I’m still on it, and will continue to be on it until I die probably. Most of my classes are filled with late teens and early twenty-year-olds who live with their parents and have experienced very little of real life. I find myself increasingly bitter towards these college hopefuls.

But really, lets get down to the real problem here. I pretty much dislike everything about me. I don’t find myself to be a good person at all. I seem to fuck up more than I create. I’m inherently selfish. Those around me are more stressed out by my presence than they welcome it and through their words and actions lead me to believe that they would be better if I weren’t around. My insecurities get the best of me and the basic things I lacked growing up are biting me in the ass now. I’m easily offended and quick to anger, and you can blame the Irish blood for the anger but we all know that my strong German genetics give way to one sour kraut at times.

I find myself constantly backed into a corner because I have a mind and am not afraid to express when I think someone is being a jack ass, but often after several rounds of agreement from those around me, few are willing to stand when I stand and thus I remain a loner. And when I do stand up and have something to say I’m only being a jackass for having something to say. I’m inconsiderate and unwilling to back down in the heat of the moment. For lack of better words, I lack certain communication skills in my own need to stand out. My family was one of the shout to be heard types and the meek would be crushed. I learned this very early on and decided to speak out and speak up. But these are not commended attributes, but more so scorned, hated and undesirable, unless of course I was 5’8 with a 32-inch waist. In my overweight appearance what I have is “fat girl” bitterness.

So maybe my family was right when they told me I was a bitch. Or perhaps my grandmother was correct in predicting I would never amount to anything just like my mother. And just maybe this fight to be more is all a waste of time. I’m finding it hard to enjoy life and those around me. Psychologically, I’m a complete mess. But my heart doesn’t believe in the idea of paying someone to listen to me hash out my problems. And even so, any attempt that I have had to talk and get things out, I’ve only had these problems and confessions then thrown back into my face. My trust factor is about as low as my self esteem. I’ve become a shell of a human being, just waiting for the time when my number is called and I can be free of the hate, anger and despair.

But then, maybe I should just stop feeling sorry for myself. Maybe I should just get over it. After all, Is that not what you’re supposed to do? Because I’m sure there are people with more problems than I’m facing that keep walking each day head held high. If I didn’t have a schedule or obligations, I think I might pass my days in sleep.

Or maybe I don't feel I deserve to be happy.

Lessons Learned

So I learned a couple of things about myself last night. First is, that I should never ever drink beer again. Well, at least not as much as I had last night because I cannot drink without becoming a complete douche bag.

Second thing I learned was that I do not enjoy people who do not have enough common sense to say what they mean and mean what they say. And by this I mean, if you’re going to sit there and talk shit at least have the backbone to stand up against what you say instead of cowering and backing down. In fact, if you’re going to make an alliance with someone, stick to that alliance don’t run off and hide. Those are the back stabbing, two faced rejects that cause people lives. Look I’m fine if you rethink your position and feel that maybe you were wrong, but when there’s another person involved you don’t leave them in the dark. It’s rude and its uncalled for.

So I have a new rule to be instated in my list of musts for people that I will surround myself. Must have Integrity and spine. Must be strong-minded and have a grasp of reality. None of this two-faced bull shit. It’s old and childish. We’re adults now, lets act like them (most of the time anyway.)

Its particularly said in this instance because this particular person that I have had these problems with is someone I would stand up for and help if it were possible. Someone I held in high regards, which obviously was my first mistake. So if you’re two faced and lack spine, I do not want to associate myself with you.

Third is, I need to keep my damn mouth shut sometimes, but I knew that already.

No beer for me, stick with the hard liquor because no one likes an ass hole.

A Nervous Rant...

So last week my car broke down on the middle of the Garden State Parkway (Massive road, split into 6 lanes each way, 3 for Express and 3 for local (aka exit lanes)) Well I was on the Express side (no way to exit) and the clutch went out on my car. You can’t just have ANYONE tow you off the Parkway or Turnpike, you have to have specially licensed people do it. Well, that tow cost me 250.00. Of which I didn’t have. Then the clutch cost me another 125.00.

I’m grateful because my friend Jake had an extra car that I am currently using (however uncomfortable it is for me to drive) but the problem is that I have no money. And I work part time and school starts in 2 days. Which is fine, sort of. Normally I would be okay, but the money I had in reserves was used to support me during my surgery in July, and it's all gone. ....


The problem is, I have over 5000.00 in grant/loan money being held by the school and they actually don’t give the money to the student until the end of November, at that point I am 3 weeks from school being over. I thought that the point of getting money to help you with school for expenses and what not was to help. Releasing the funds that late in the semester does not help. What if I was a student that needed to purchase a computer? The semester would basically be over before I was actually able to do so. Or in my case, I need the funding to pay my rent – That includes October and November rent. It’s very frustrating and Im feeling extremely hopeless. I can’t get a personal loan from a bank because I have terrible credit. I’m trying to find another job but that’s not proving to be an easy task. And it’s making me a nervous wreck. ....


I really need to get a second job now, which totally fucks me on my plans to be a full time student with a part time job. It’s going to make me a full time student with basically a full time job…. And I fear that will not end well. But if I don’t get more income, I will not make my Oct. rent… Fuck, why did my car have to break now?....

Bleh.

Why the long face? Did someone just kill your cat?

It’s like someone just told me my cat died. Because that’s how I feel about the new stuff that has been coming out of the Backstreet Boys as of late. I remember when I spent hours trying to defend them against what people would say about them. I’d claim that they were real musicians and that they did write their own stuff because, well they did.

So, like a true fan, I followed them on Twitter. Yes I even had their updates sent to my phone just so I could keep track of what my favorite… yes I’ll say it now. My favorite group was doing. I was truly excited about their last album. It was such an improvement from many of their first that had gotten me hooked at the time when I was budding into puberty searching for acceptance and wanting something to call my own. They came at the right time in my life and I know they will stay forever in my life too. However, lately I’m more ashamed than I ever was as a young teenager making my way through the halls being teased by others for wearing my concert shirt to school. You’d think at my most impressionable time this rejection from my peers would sting, it did – but not nearly as much as it did when I clicked the link from a twitter saying “check out our new single.”

I can only explain my reaction as horrified. A rumble came on, and then I felt like there was a strobe light piercing my eardrums, tainting my mind with all that is being leaked out of the airwaves on radio these days. It took everything in my being to keep the entire song on, hoping that it was just a dream, that what I was just imagining the crap coming from my Macbook speakers. It didn’t stop. And the sting set in.

“Ugh, Am I really going to buy this crap when it comes out?” I thought to myself.

I’m a dedicated fan so when “I’ll never break your heart” came out, even though that song portrayed Backstreet Boy, Brian Littrells long time love interest and wife in the video, I still watched it as I saw my little heart break because it was now abundantly clear that I was not marrying that Backstreet Boy. And clearly it was his loss, because I, well I will be an amazing catch some day and he could only be so lucky.

So even as my little heart broke, I still supported the Backstreet Boys.

When Kevin Richardson signed off from the band and I felt like his sultry voice really was a crucial element to the band, I continued to display my flag, demanding support for the remaining members because while he moved on, the backstreet boys would still prevail. But I still needed Kevin. And I still felt his presents.

And when they weren’t selling albums and what they were producing wasn’t considered pop, but dwindled into “Adult Contemporary” I supported them. Because what they were producing was honest. It was emotional and it filled me with happiness because they were keeping with what I knew the backstreet boys were to me, a vocal group with an amazing amount of talent. Unfortunately, that album didn’t do too well.

So their answer? Well just turn on the radio, it’s about the same as everything else that’s on right now. And yes, they were a pop sensation, and yes there were several other groups that were the same when they were at the “Peak” of their career, but they also retained some individuality. Can anyone really say they know who 5ive was or LFO without really knowing pop music at the time? You say “Backstreet Boys” and while some may groan, people knew who they were. Okay, so maybe you couldn’t tell the difference between them and their “rival” N’Sync, but you can blame their manager for that, as they shared the same reject of a promoter.

And if it weren’t enough that my whole world of obsession and devotion got dragged through a cheese grater, I did what any loyal fan would do. I clicked the link to watch the video of the same song that made my brain melt. Twilight Fans, you sure will love it. Vampires. Original, I’m so glad they thought of something that no one else would think of. I’m sure it will do some what well because anything with a vampire is being snatched up and devoured.

But for me, I feel like someone just killed my cat.

My Own "Jennifer Project"

In an attempt to find more things named Jennie or Jennifer in a self imposed contest with my friend Jake I thought I had won the war when I discovered that there was a Jennifer Island in Canada. “HAH!” I exclaimed, “I have my own Island.” Happy in my triumphant win, I then discovered that there was a Jake Island and a Jacob Island. It as at this point that I had to fold. Even though I had found several Jennifer/Jennie/Jenny/Jen combos Jake/Jacob was the winner with more than twice as many geographical locations, the cards were clearly in his favor. And in case you are wondering In the United States alone there are these geographical locations with variations of the name Jennifer.

1. Jenifer, Alabama
2. Jennie, Minnesota
3. Jennie, Georgia
4. Jennie, Arkansas
5. Jennie Run Estates, Maryland
6. Jenny Gap Historical, West Virginia
7. Jenny Lind, California
8. Jenny Lind, Arkansas
9. Jenny Lind, North Carolina
10. Jennys, South Carolina

But what I found even more interesting in my quest to find all things Jennie/Jennifer was that a Blogger had started this thing she named The Jennifer Project. Which this Jennifer's goal was to meet and photograph different Jennifers' around the world/U.S. Each tell a story of their love or love/hate relationship with the name Jennifer. And it inspired me to write my own story with my love, mostly hate relationship with my namesake.

I knew that I had been named after someone specific in the family and that it was a grandmother, but I wasn’t sure how far back that went. So I did what anyone searching for answers about their family would do…. I called a family member. So now the mystery is solved. I was named Jennie (Well my birth certificate reads Jennifer) after my Great-Great-Great Grandmother on my Mother’s Father’s side. I also knew that if I weren’t Jennifer, I would have been named Margaret but nicknamed Maggie; which I can only assume is because it was my Great Aunts name.

In the earlier chapters of my life when I was discovering who I was and what that meant I remember trying the different spellings and versions of Jennifer. At home I had a slew of different nicknames Jennie Girl, G-girl, and Hennie Pennie, are among the few. I thought I would try out spelling my name J-E-N-N-Y for a change. It was easier to write, seem to flow better when written in cursive and I could create a cute little curly-q at the end of my name with accent to the y. To me Jenny sounded more fun, peppy, perhaps cheerleader-esq and even more so, it sounded popular and I needed all the help I could get.

Of course that came to an end when I brought home a paper with my new found spelling of and got quite the lecture about it. I remember my mother saying “I didn't name you JENNY with a Y, I named you Jennie with an IE after your great grandmother…” and the rest will remain a mystery but the message was clear and I would spend the rest of my life arguing that same point. “It’s Jennie with an I E not Jenny with a Y.” or “No it’s J-E-N-N-I-E” It felt more unique to be Jennie and it actually lumped me in the category of “weird name” children because after all, I was born in the 80’s and nearly every other child was named Jennifer.

The hate for my name came later in my life when I would constantly hear my grandmother screaming my name from across the room always accenting the “Fer” part. Even as I write this I can hear her calling my name and sometimes would wake startled in the middle of the night thinking she was calling me. From that point, I would growl angrily at anyone who called me Jennifer, asking them to please not address me as such because I was named after my Grandmother and her name was Jennie.

I also adopted the story I would tell people that my mom was too stupid to not know that you could name your child anything (with reason) and she thought she had to name me Jennifer. At least that’s what I had hoped because Jennifer seemed to peg me too closely to other people and I of course, was a star destined to outshine them all. Perhaps that is why I took same route in "slightly different" when I adopted Jenn, It's that extra N that makes all the difference.

Story of our lives.....

I’m addicted to memoirs. I’m not sure what it is that captivates me so but I cannot get enough of them. I find others lives fascinating – Mostly I read things having to do with psychology or the human mind and its ability to overcome traumatic events.

I’ve recently been reading a lot of books about people in foster care or who have encountered some type of abuse as a child. I think I cling to these books heavily as a source and way to move past my own traumatizing events. I find a common bond with the writers in which many of us share a hatred for the Child Protection systems and foster cares. While I never had to deal with a foster home first hand – I can only imagine the horror stories, but I also am able to see that there are good people who want more than a paycheck, who want to help people get better. And then I realize I am drawn to these memoirs because they allow me the knowledge that I am certainly not alone and they allow me to see how others cope with their own abandonment or abuses. It gives me ideas on ways to conquer my own demons.

I just stayed up reading a book I got from the bookstore yesterday called Three Little Words in which one [now] semi-famous girl Ashley, recounts her years in the foster care system where she endured harsh homes as well as adequate ones.

As I’m reading this book I feel a lump grow in my throat every time she talks about her love for her biological mother. How her mother was able to hold a hard grasp over her and the power and desire she had to be with her mother despite her own knowledge of her mothers instabilities. The lump I felt was my own need and connection with my own mother. How like the author, I always believed that my mother could and would change because she wanted my siblings and I. And while she may have wanted us and she loved us and like Ashley's mother, she was unable to conquer her own demons.

It’s interesting how much I clung to the need for my mother to be around, how much I cling to the idea of having a mother, even though I feel that time has long passed for me. I have several Stand-in mothers, unfortunately none of them can touch the want and need I have for my own mother. I find that my resentment towards her stupidity and actions make me hate her but love her still the same. It’s the torn emotions that really get to me and I saw these same conflicting emotions in Ashley story. Her story truly spoke to me.

Taking some time...

I took an extra week off of work to catch up on things I'm never able to do because of my work schedule, like Clean, do laundry, Go to my school, fill out paper work, get registered for classes. Drive around, find a new job... things I never get to do because I have to work.

Really I'm on a two week medical leave because I had my gallbladder removed. And While I could have returned on Monday, I choose to take the extra week because my doctor said that it takes about 2 weeks before a person returns to work. I have a doctors note and that makes this week even sweeter.

Granted, I'm not being paid for this leave, I also knew it was coming so I took the necessary steps to prepare. My bills are paid for a bit and that makes me not stress and enjoy the time off. A mini vacation for me -against my employers wants. But I hate them anyway and really wish they would fire me so I could collect unemployment and try and find a part time job for school. I am so over their dumbness.

I want to do a photo shoot soon, I just don't know what of. I really need to work with my camera some more, its not getting used enough. How sad. Anyone have any suggestions?

And that's what's going on in the boring world of Jennie.

The Show Must Go On....

Today is one of those days where I feel so blah, abandoned, and alone. It happens from time to time. And whenever I express my feelings towards it, I’m often told that what I’m feeling is ridiculous and that I’m just trying to cause guilt in other people. But it’s not really the case. It’s me who feels the guilt, because I feel like this. Because I feel like I should have more attention, when I get a little more than others.

Granted recently, I have had some, but mostly, I gave myself attention and occasionally there would be a little bit. Is it wrong of me to have wanted more? And that seems to be the problem. I need more than a few absentminded seconds before someone goes off to something else. I need a lot more, and I haven’t been able to get it in recent months, years really. I wanted to get better so I could do more things and not have to spend all my time alone in a bed healing. I wanted to be able to refresh and rejuvenate, get a better grasp of things. But it didn’t seem to go that way.

I can’t seem to move myself from needing people. Specific people. The people that don’t really have the time for me or the people who have that have other things to do. Being alone a lot gets to me… and then I get into these moods where I feel like my world is sinking and I forgot how to swim, and I almost just want to drown, but know I can’t.

I shouldn’t feel like this.

Status Update: Missing Gallbladder....not so missed

The official Status

I went in at 11 AM to the hospital for a surgery that was supposed to be at 1 PM, I didn’t actually get into the O.R until 7 PM – they kept having surgeries run late. And I should figure, as we were coming off a holiday weekend that included alcohol and explosives. I know those two don’t mix.

Surgery went well, from what I’m told there were no complications and they were able to do it entirely Laparoscopic. Which means I only have three 1-inch incisions on my stomach and one in my belly button area. I was real nervous about this because they said because of my weight there could be a lot of complications and they may have to do the old fashion cut me open approach. Scaring should be minimal.

Always the one for humor, the drugs they had me on made me exceptionally funny, or awkward. I did however make the Anesthesiologist laugh on a few occasions. The first part when they were having me switch to the Operating table, they put the back down on the bed I was on, which scared me so I just was like “oh shit, we’re going down” which made everyone laugh. Then again, when they were waking me from the anesthesia, I apparently said, “Holy shit, what did you guys do to me, it hurts so bad!”

And then while coming out of it, in the recovery room, I commented on my shoulder hurting really bad and the conversation went like this.

Nurse: Didn’t they tell you that your shoulder was going to hurt a little from the gas injected?
Me: No, no they did not
Nurse: We’ll now you know
Me: I sure do, Noted.

And then I came in and out of it, and anytime they said my last name, I would raise my hand and point at myself…. Which made a few nurses giggle.

I got out of the Hospital and home at about 11:30 PM, they wanted me to stay over night because it was so late, but I got to go home.

Yesterday I pushed myself entirely too hard to be self-dependent, and ended up hurting myself a little more. So today I’m typing this from bed, I haven’t moved much and the movements I do make is at 80-year-old pace. I have to stop every few seconds to catch my breath; healing sucks. And so do Low-fat Diets!

I’m doing decent, I thank everyone for notes of concern and I will keep you all posted and all the concerned texts I’ve gotten. Sorry if I haven’t replied to each one individually, I’m coming in and out of consciousness with the pain medication.

Work really grinds my gears.

I really dislike people that are of the mindset that a persons job should be held over their head and that they should be made to fear being fired. With the economy being what is was and what it is many companies are taking advantage of the desperate nature of individuals by placing sweatshop like policies on their employees.

I know that a business is a business and that it must function correctly with everyone doing their jobs, but I also realize that the most successful companies are those who value their employees and understand the idea of a "happy worker."

The idea is that if an employee is happy with their position and what they do, they will work harder, thus generating more profit for the company. On the flip side, if an employee is subject to doing a task that they do not like and are not treated well, they are less likely to complete the task at a fast rate, thus lowering the generation of income.

A lot of the productivity has to do with the higher level and lower level employee interaction. If situations always seem confrontational it causes a lot of unnecessary. pressure in the air. If an employee makes a statement about something they are finding particularly hard to deal with the response in which their superior or another employee gives makes a difference in how things will progress.

Scenario 1:

Employee: Sometimes I wish we could catch a break it seems like the work load is just so intense it would be nice to see that the rock that time we spend working on it seemed to be making a difference.

Supervisor: We'll if we didn't have work than you wouldn't have a job.


Scenario 2:

Employee: Sometimes I wish we could catch a break it seems like the work load is just so intense it would be nice to see that the rock that time we spend working on it seemed to be making a difference.

Supervisor: I know it looks like you're not accomplishing anything but you're really doing a good job and I appreciate your hard work.

In those scenarios which do you think would promote the person to work harder or just do what they need to do to keep their jobs. The bottom line is positive reinforcement generally works to the advantage of the employer. Human nature is to enjoy having egos fluffed. In the same manner that someone who has obtained a Doctorate loves when people call them "Dr." because they worked hard for what they have.

I guess my problem also lies within the idea that I enjoy that I get paid when I do work, but even more than that I am driven by recognition and the need to feel as the fruits of my labor are something that can make me gain not only in a monetary since but also in pride. The problem is, I work for a company that treats their employees fairly badly and they use negative reinforcement as something to make a person work just so they can continue to have a job.

The idea that the words "There are a bunch of other people that would love to have your job" was said in a speech that was supposed to promote productivity doesn't sit well with me. It makes me sad that some people actually think there is nothing better out there. It's like a really abusive relationship and my employers know this.

He is teaching me...

I remember I was driving with a CD I had created of some music, the windows were down and it was rather warm considering the weather we had been having. I was enjoying the warmth of the sun for one of the first times since before fall and winter began. All in all, it was a good day.

I’ve found that music is an outlet for musicians to purge their emotions out and if they’re heard sometimes someone can connect with what they’re saying.

I’ve always been found of Flyleaf songs for their meaning and content. Not to mention my addiction to the singers voice. Her voice has something that captivates me. The lyrics are always something I can relate to on some level and more recently I had discovered some songs I had not known about before.

The song opened and I wasn’t paying too much attention until I heard a specific phrase:

“He has every reason to throw up is fist in the face of his god who let his mother die, through all the prayers and tears she still passed in pain anyway…”

This hit me particularly hard because while it hit on a religious level it also hit on a level of loss, which is not always of a religious standpoint. So I listened a little bit more and it continued, “You think there’s no use in praying, but still he bows his head so he can say thank you for ending her pain…” at this point I was hooked, but I wanted to hear more. I could feel the bumps in my skin begin to rise as I listen to these lyrics. So I hit replay to hear the song all the way through.

This song hit me in a way that made me question my faith these days because often I am turned off by religious speeches and talks. While I have belief and I was born and raised Catholic, my religious views tend to be a little more toned down and to myself. Most people want to share their religion and preach it to the world but I on the other hand keep it to myself. It’s not that I think of it as something that needs to be a secret, but more something that is private and something I like to keep to myself. It’s like something good that I keep for me, like a memento or shared moment with a friend.

In essence I look at religion as something that I have for me and myself, to keep me moving. A reason this song particularly spoke to me was because of the lines “You think there’s no use in praying…” I’ve never really been one to pray and often when told to say prayers I shrug it off as something not necessary. My belief is that god knows what I am thinking and so my thoughts alone count as prayer without saying things like the “Hail Mary” or “Our Father.” The idea of an “organized” prayer turns me away. It’s also why I’m not found in church often when a mass is being said, but rather will go when there isn’t much going on in the church and I can be alone in my thoughts. So instinctively this son talks about the idea of prayer and doing it more often, but I needed to hear more, So I hit replay and listened to the song I was really able to feel/understand the song in a more complete way.

Supernatural – Flyleaf

Her headaches constant,
Increasing in pain with each passing day.
She can't even manage to stand on her own
It’s gotten so bad.

You think in saying there's no use in praying
But still she bows her head
So she can say thank you for just one more day.

Supernatural patience
Graces her face
And her voice never raises
All because, of a love, never let go of.
Never let go of...

He has every reason to throw up his fists
In the face of his God who let his mother die.
Through all the prayers and tears,
She still passed in pain anyway.

You think in saying there's no use in praying
But still he bows his head
So he can say thank you for ending her pain.

Supernatural patience
Graces his face
And his voice never raises
All because, of a love, never let go of.
Never let go of...
He is teaching me
What love really means.

Supernatural patience
Graces his face
And his voice never raises.
All because, of a love,
Never let go of.

Yes it's supernatural patience.
It graces his face
And his voice never raises.
All because, of a love,
Never let go of.
Never let go of...

He is teaching me
What love really means.

This song means more than religion; it’s also about the choice to see something good out of something bad. For the woman she speaks of she looks at her illness as a problem, but she also looks at each day as a gift and something to be proud of something to be thankful. While she suffers, as many of us do – she is also thankful that she can spend time here. She embraces life even though hers is crumbling before her. “Thank you for just one more day…” which made me realize that even in my trials and bumps along the road I have a lot to be thankful for and a lot that I take for granted, like “just one more day.”

And then the song goes into talk about the other person affected by the woman’s death. “He has every reason to throw up his fists in the face of his God who let his mother die…” more often than not I am quick to push the blame else where and in the instance of my grandmother and grandfather dying my anger was displaced and aimed towards god or a higher power. I would become angry arguing that pain and suffering should not be allowed. And then the song moves further into the man bowing his head and saying “thank you for ending her pain…” and it opened up something I was always conscious of but never really fully acknowledged, which is again the idea of two sides. In this instance the death, while sad brought an end to pain, which we can all be thankful. In some instances a death could mean life for another person (which is why I’m all for organ donating, but that’s an entirely different post for another time.)

Really, what this song taught me is “supernatural patience” it opened my eyes to the idea of my religion and being able to call on it for strength in hard times but also to realize that this isn’t the end and there is always something more. There are always two sides to the story and two ways to look at things.

I brought home the smell of Happiness in a bag...

And time for an update…

I’ve officially been back at my own house now for about 2 and a half hours. And I’ve done pretty much nothing other than take a cold shower and throw some clothes in the washer.

I didn’t realize how exhausting flying can be. My body is done, even if I did spend most of the day asleep. I was just catching up from the lack of sleep I got the day I flew home.

So that being said, right before I left for my trip out to Arizona I got these sharp pains in my upper abdomen right below my right breast. The pains lasted for almost 4 hours and I left work early. As I was driving home the pains subsided but since I had insurance I thought it would be smarter if I actually used the insurance.

So I went to the doctor and then I was told to get an ultrasound of the problematic area so I did that the day before I flew out and they told me they would call me with the results. Twenty minutes after landing in Arizona I get a phone call from the doctor, apparently I have gallstones of which I have to see a specialist about and I also have a fatty liver, of which, the doctor didn’t say much in regards to it. Great.

So now that I’m back in town I’ll go pick up my referral and then schedule an appointment with a gallbladder specialist, but I have no idea when I’ll be able to even go pick up the referral… We’ll see.

So that’s the health issues I face. On a good note, I received word from the community college that I have gotten a pell grant and some state aid totally in a little under 5000.00 for the semester which should be perfect to pay for full time classes and books leaving a little extra for living expenses and what not. I need to take school serious so I have a plan in development where I will work through the summer at my current job saving up and then in September when school starts I’m going to look for a part time job and then quit my current job. I’ve got to get school out of the way so that I can start my life… So hopefully I can do this. We shall see.

I'm a gallery of broken hearts, Know that maybe I will be okay...

Sometimes I sit and think of how insecure I must be to allow these people who while, have helped me out in some tough situations, tend to treat me like crap. I’m not trying to play the victim card because I am by no means innocent at all, I know I can be quite the fuck up, but my intentions are generally good I think.

I’ve been extraordinarily picky about who I bring into my circle this time around and I think that has left me pretty friendless.

I don’t have the same kinds of friends that I used to have. The ones that want to hang out a lot, or just chill. I have friends with busy lives who have more to do than they can handle and I just feel like a this extra (a lot of extra) weight that they have to carry around as to not watch me sink into this horrible depression.

But then I think, Damn it, I deserve attention. I deserve to be treated with some respect. To be more than just Jennie, but someone who is interesting and has things to say. But with some people, there are only certain things that can be said and a door has been closed.

I miss being able to talk freely without quilt consuming me. It’s not all my fault I feel guilty, but it certainly isn’t all of the other peoples faults either. Things will be better when I learn how to stop feeling…

Other than being extremely upset with myself things are progressing along smoothly. I still continue to hate my job, but my first semester in college has ended and I think I came out somewhat on top.

I’m getting ready for a trip back to Arizona, where for a brief shining moment I will have friends that just want to hang out with me but I’m sure once I return I will feel this lump of emptiness burning within me.

I just needed to whine/vent etc…

I’m fine, just a few bumps and frustrations.

Two steps froward, two steps back...

Making some progress…

For the past year I have wanted to buy a dSLR camera and move forward in my knowledge and skills with being a professional, or semi-professional photographer. Any time I had the money, something always came up and I ended back at square one, and wasn’t able to progress any further.

I can now check that off the list. Done.

The problem with this now is I’m finding everything that I knew about photography was nothing. I’m starting at square one and having to learn everything. Now, its all about lenses (which by the way, did I mention they’re an arm and a leg?) It’s about lighting and being able to focus correctly. Granted, I do have an auto focus and automatic setting for the “point and shoot” variety, but it’s not going to cut it this time.

I’m a big kid now.

I’ve come out of a pretty tough week. My job and my boss really has started to get to me and I’ve almost had it with the petty bullshit double standard that’s been taking place. Generally, there are always some double standards and there’s always some favoritism, but this is getting ridiculous.

Example one – we’re allowed to read when it’s a little slow, as long as we’re getting our work done. I see people reading catalogs, People, Glamour, Cosmopolitan, the bible – the slow time I take as a great time to do some homework so I had a book out open on my desk. I wasn’t really reading it at the time; I just had it open so I wouldn’t lose my place. My boss comes over, interrupts me mid phone call (you know, when I’m working) and tells me I can’t be doing my homework at work? Whoa, I can read trashy tabloids but I can’t read my Making Literature Matter textbook? Where is the sense in that? No only did she interrupts my call, but my customer could HEAR her talking to me and in that moment she undermined my ability to actually do my job. The customer now doubted my capability. Yes, way to go Roe!

And guess what, she wrote me up for it too.

My week continued to go like this, this incident happened Monday. And then Tuesday she yelled at me for putting on lip gloss at my desk, citing “You can’t put make up on at your desk, do it before you get to work.”

But she can. And everyone else I’ve ever seen do it in front of her can.

Wednesday is the day I received the write up. Fabulous, there isn’t anything I love better than being criticized. It really starts my day out well.

Thursday, seemingly okay, she (Roe) only yells at us a couple times.

And then Friday, she yells at me because I had solved a customers problem (They were billed 6 months) when they shouldn’t have been, because the authorization tape that was recorded didn’t really give them authorization and should have been canceled. It wasn’t, so I issued a full refund for the client. At the end, I said my line “Were you completely satisfied with my level of customer service today?” to which the customer replied “Yes, thank you.”

Problem solved.

No, no it wasn’t. Then here comes Lawrence (The Chosen One) tapping me on the shoulder ready to pass of work to me, usually in the form of a screaming customer to which he didn’t attempt to help. It was my previous customers husband, he had called to bitch us out for, well billing him when we shouldn’t have. Which to some degree I understand….had I NOT issued any credits or attempted to resolve the issue, but I had…. So this guy just wanted to bitch me out. And on top of it all, his phone kept dropping so it was like this drawn out 3 part call where he cursed at me using every word he could. I can handle this so I allowed him to bitch occasionally mentioning that I had canceled the account and that credit was issued. Of course, after 3 months I clearly do not know how to do my job, so mid call Roe starts lecturing me, all of us, on how to handle extreme customers. And then she has someone come stand next to me coaching me on a call they cannot hear.

It could be me, but is she paying entirely too much attention to me?

It’s Friday, the course of the week has made my nerves shot. I’m pissed off at work, pissed off at my professor because he continues to make us do completely asinine assignments that degrade our intelligence and are rather redundant. He makes us analyze a 2-paragraph essay in 5 pages. And did I mention he keeps calling me Jess/Jessica/Jessie in written papers? It’ not like its out loud, its written out on a paper that clearly has my name typed out at the top. It has me hating the language I have grown accustom to loving.

But still, I’m making progress.

After 5 months of procrastination, I have joined a gym. Of which I have not set out a goal, but it will probably be something along the lines of 3 times a week, most likely after work. So here’s to me loosing some fat kid status.