Get your head outta the clouds kid!

I need to focus. The past three weeks have been a complete haze where I feel like I am walking around in this fog. I’m smiling and I am happy, but I seem to be slacking in my everyday responsibilities.

You know, the ones where I actually do my schoolwork and show up to class? Listen, my brain has been preoccupied with the idea of a crush. I have one. It’s slowly consuming my every thought pattern. Psychology of personality becomes “I wonder what he’s doing, I’m going to text him to see.” And Photography turns into me staring at a photo I took of us on my phone. I feel like a drug addict consumed in the thought of when I will get my next "fix." When will I hear his voice? See his smile. When will I be able to kiss him and hear him tell me how beautiful I am and how much he loves to see me smile. Cause really, this kind of drug can never get old. It is such an amazing feeling to me, a rush. I'm pretty sure in the past, I've never felt this sort of crazy rushing feeling. But its consuming.

I need to get back to the place where my mind isn’t wandering and I focus more. Concentrate on what is in front of me and allow myself to fall into a better routine where I organize, prioritize and make sure I am doing what I should be doing.
That being said, I find myself constantly in a bright and sunny mood. I love this me better than any me I have ever been, and it truly doesn’t have to do with the prospect of Daniel in my life; though he sure doesn’t hurt.

It has to do with figuring out who I am, what I want and just letting go of things that bother me. I’m allowing myself to live without the fear, without the voice in my head telling me I’ll never be good enough, because for the first time in a long time, I feel good enough, if not better. I can and will do anything.

On the Brooklyn Side...

I haven’t written anything as of late for fear that I would just babble on and on about this boy that I have and how he makes me light up, and he does. I haven’t written about it because I know when I read things like that it makes me gag. Sure someone is happy, sure it’s great to see that, but also, it makes me gag.

So instead, I’ll write about the Brooklyn Bridge.

The fact that I love bridges really does throw me off a bit, because I fear going over them. I fear that they will collapse and I will be on them. I have much of that same fear of walking over subway grates in the city. I fear that I will be walking on them and my weight will cause them collapse. Never mind the fact that nearly everyday several people walk over these grates and bridges and make it over just fine. In the back of my mind that little voice says, but what if today is the day. And so I avoid walking over grates in the city, taking the longest route possible to not have to step on one because the moment my foot touches one, my heart clenches and I get seized with a panic. So, I avoid them.

Bridges however, I cannot avoid. Living in Arizona most of the bridges I saw were over dirt and even then there weren’t that many. Living in New Jersey I can’t drive 10 miles without having passed over 3 or more bridges. Rivers are everywhere, and they’re actually riverbeds, not dried up. Even now I still get a kick out of going over a bridge and seeing water below. So you could say I’ve managed to overcome my fear of bridges. I no longer feel my heart seize in panic, but rather a weird calming euphoria feeling. So what is it about the Brooklyn Bridge that makes it my favorite bridge?
The first time I went to the Brooklyn Bridge was circa my 23rd Birthday. It was rainy and cold. But I stood there in aw starring at this massive structure that I had fallen in love with through only pictures. It was the most beautiful bridge I had ever seen with its massive arches lit and twinkling in the rain. And it would become a beacon for me a place to go when I felt restless.

While the Brooklyn Bridge is one of the oldest suspension bridges in the U.S and history does appeal to me, that isn’t what gets me. It’s not that it was one of the longest suspension bridges in the world and its not that its over 125-years-old, though that’s pretty impressive too. Come to think of it, I can’t really name what I love so much about this bridge, what I can say is that when I stand below it I feel at home.

Only by the Night...

Only by The Night by Kings of Leon. Let’s talk about this whole album and how it relates to my life, because quite frankly, it’s a current soundtrack to my life these days.
1. Closer – This song actually sways two ways for me. It has a lot to do with me following my heart on two agendas and one of them breaking apart on me. Falling in love with someone who doesn’t love you back really can leave you feeling “Stranded in this spooky town” and living in New Jersey, more than once I have felt stranded. But I also look at it in a brighter light in that the dreams that I had as a child were not “Get married, have kids” unless the person I was marrying was a backstreet boy (Listen, I still cling to the hope, even though he’s married.) I realize that marriage and kids were never something I HAD to have, but school was. I had to have a college degree. I remember being seven and thinking that I was going to go somewhere great. Stanford, Harvard or Princeton. At a young age I had my eyes set on something bigger, better. “And it’s coming closer”

2. Crawl – This song relates to a lot of my rage and anger that I’ve had lately. To me it’s a an anthem to learn to be humble when its needed. The idea that you need to crawl before you walk. Knowing this I can push it forward and learn to forgive before I can forget. And really I just love the guitar riffs in it.

3. Sex on Fire – “You, your sex is on fire.” Or as Luke, the 4-year-old I watch says, “I want to hear the ‘on fire’ song.’ This song speaks to me in a way that sex does for most. It’s desire, its passion; it’s a longing and need. As adults it’s a basic need. It’s a cause for pain; it’s a cause for distressed. Married people go to marriage counseling to discuss where their desire for sex has gone. Magazines write about how to get the passion back. For me it’s about my desire I’ve had for life as a young kid. As an adult I feel it’s my passion to be bigger (hopefully not in the pant size) and greater than I am. It’s a passion, a fire, and a need. “Consumed with what’s to transpire.”

4. Use Somebody – It’s their hit, I heard it once and loved it but never really thought much about it, I didn’t even know who sang it, just that I liked the song. On a personal note as a single fat girl, I’m constantly wondering if someone will ever notice “someone like me.” And the opening line is a dead ringer for how I have been most of my life “I’ve been roaming around always looking down at all I see, painted faces fill the places I can’t reach.” Lets dissect what “painted faces” means to me. For me it was my desire and need to be my friends, to be as beautiful and popular as Kristin, or fun and flirty like Elizabeth. I looked at my friends and wanted so badly to not be the fat kid and to be them. They were my painted faces filling the places I couldn’t reach. Back to this being their hit. Luke loves this band, he talks about them because it’s his dad’s favorite band (he says.) Then one day I’m sitting in the car and I hear the song and the DJ says that its Kings of Leon and it was a light bulb that hit. I am a fan.
5. Manhattan – Uh? Do I really even need to explain this? Honestly. I moved to New Jersey to be closer to it. It’s my candy store. “ We’re gonna fuel this fire, gonna stoke it up, we’re gonna sip this wine and pass the cup. Who needs avenues, who needs reservoirs, gonna show this town how to kiss these stars.” This town makes me feel like something bigger and better. But it also makes me feel small. It’s amazing that it has this ability to make me feel two opposing ideas. I love it for the magic it makes me feel and the fire that it lights for me.

6. Revelry – For me this is about the loss of my grandma. The lyrics speak of a romantic love but what I drive from it is the thought and emotions of feeling my grandmother’s presence so often in my life. It doesn’t seem to get better to me. Specifically there’s a line that says “just know it was you who had a hold of my heart, but the demon and me were the best of friends from the start.” Speaks volumes on the relationship I had with her. I loved her, I hated her, I wanted her to notice me and I acted out in all the wrong ways possible. I struggle so hard with this. I can talk about and I can confess my thoughts and emotions but I can’t seem to let it go, can’t seem to find my peace.

7. 17 – Okay, it’s me. Exactly me. I’m 17 stuck in a 25-year-olds body. My thoughts are often immature, but my intentions are mostly wise and older. “Oh she’s only 17, wind and wind and wound up over thing…” I get so caught up in my lack of childhood, the idea that I hurt more than I felt good.

8. Notion – “So don’t knock it, you’ve been here before” is a tribute to me knowing that I am not alone in my thoughts that someone has always felt the way I felt and I’m not alone. It’s also a tribute to going with my gut instinct on things and say how I feel. Cause “I’ve got a notion to say what doesn’t feel right.”

9. I Want You – This is, exactly as the lyrics have it. It’s about wanting something that is bad for me. Something that doesn’t do anything for me. I relate to that in my relationships with friends that are more poison than good. And I want them, like it used to be.

10. Be Somebody – I put this song on to inspire me when I feel like I’m getting nowhere. I put it on when I need to remember what I keep fighting for. What I want out of life. I want to do more than survive; I want to make an imprint.

11. Cold Desert – Well if this isn’t the anthem for the inner Emo me. This reminds me of the failure I had to a choice I was making. It holds me accountable for my actions and pushes me to see the error in my thinking. “I’ve always been known to cross the lines.” Speaks of my “spunk.” How I push the limits and need to be heard. My cousin commented about how even at a young age I had to push myself into the center of things. It’s true then and now. I need to be seen and I need to be noticed. So I’ve taken myself out of the cold of the desert to shine.

But it also heals your soul...

“When the morning came I was up before first light…”

I woke up unusually early for myself this morning. Like a good student the night before my first day of class I attempted to get to sleep earlier than I usually do and I was in bed and asleep before midnight. This is actually a pretty good feat for me as my night owl habits often have me up into the wee hours of the morning.

“My heartbeat started pounding a rhythm in my brain, a voice from deep inside said you’ve gotta be insane…”

I’ve found myself lately really clinging to the lyrics of a song. I learned as a musician it’s often the melody and the music behind a song that really make it a song. As a writer I look at that as more of a supporting actor type role, unless you’re going entirely instrumental, in which case it definitely has a starring role. For the most part, it’s the supporting actor; at least in my plays.

“A melody is like seeing someone for the first time. The physical attraction. Sex. But then, as you get to know the person, that's the lyrics. Their story. Who they are underneath. It's the combination of the two that makes it magic.” – Music and Lyrics quote.

So what is the point of all this rambling on and on about music and lyrics and sleeping or not. It has to do with the influence that music has had on me to be happy. To go to work each day and see it as a good thing rather than something I don’t want to do. I’ve found that the more positive I am about the day, the better day I have with the kids. I want to use this motto in everything that I do so that when I do find myself slipping down the backwards slope into a depression, I can look and see how it really is.

“I don’t want to turn me into something that I’m not, keep me close in mind and body you are all I’ve got.”

In my self-discovery I have found myself to be harboring a bit of rage and anger. And by a bit, I mean an unusual amount. In this anger I also find myself wanting to bite back, and bite back hard to those who have misused me in the past and those who are still doing so now. Instead of just letting these feelings roll into the “suppressed feelings” jar I keep in the back of my mind, I’m finding that these feelings want to spring forth, that perhaps the jar is now full and is now seeping out, it’s demon springing forth ready for revenge.

“And when it rains on this side of town it touches everything. Just say it again and mean it we don't miss a thing. You made yourself a bed at the bottom of the blackest hole and convinced yourself that it's not the reason you don't see the sun anymore…”

The way my brain works is there will be a trigger, something said, something realized, something heard. And from that it melts into something so warped and nothing as it was when it began. A domino effect where I can “convince myself I don’t see the sun anymore.” And I will find myself at the bottom of a blackest hole. I have found myself at the bottom of that hole more times than I would like to count and I have seen the effects it has had on the people around me, and I think that makes for some good news.

“Open me up and you will see, I'm a gallery of broken hearts, I'm beyond repair, let me be and give me back my broken parts… I just want to be okay..”

So maybe in my attempts to realize, rationalize and grow I need to learn to forgive? I know that it’s not easy to forget especially for someone like me, but perhaps I can work on forgiveness.

“Sometimes mature just means over my head and I don’t really know what I’m saying”

And that is where my writing and music are going to be more important in this healing process. I’m using my writing to flush myself of these negative thoughts and emotions. I’m using it to remind myself of the positive things in my life to see things in the “rose colored” glasses again. And the music to remind me how good “sex” can be, most importantly to know the story behind myself, to relate on that level. To dissect who I am underneath and find ways to explain myself.

“I wanna feel a car crash, cause I’m dying on the inside. I wanna let go and know that I’ll be all right, Alright. Push me till I have to fly, I shed my skin, my scars. Take me deep out past these lights, where nothing dims these stars…I’m wide awake and so alive…”

Touch me, touch me baby, but don't mess up my hair...

Early on I learned as a female that shopping could make you feel better, we call this retail therapy. I knew pair of shoes or a new shirt was an easy way to cure the blues.

When I first started talking to my ex boyfriend, I told him I judged the week and or day by what I got that day. He later began asking me if it was a one shirt or two shirts kind of day and I would respond accordingly, sometimes saying that it was a no shirt kid of day. Meaning that I had not bought anything. I imagine I inherited this shopping problem from my grandmother, she was kind of queen of QVC and I was queen of buying new shirts.

And then I discovered hair dye in a whole new way and that was something I could change instantly and feel better about myself without adding to my wardrobe of too many shirts. And this has been a trend for me since my mid teens. My hair color was ever changing in high school as I discovered who I was, what I wanted and how I was going to get it.

Whenever I feel like my life is out of my control my hair color is something I can control. The best part is, no matter what color I do, I can manage to pull it off. I have the kind of complexion that can be paired with blonde; brunette, red and even black and still look like it was meant for me. I love my hair/face for this reason. And so this past weekend I found myself browsing the color isles of Sally’s Beauty Supply looking for some control. I found it in L’Oreal Dark Brown.

I feel in control, and I love my new hair color. I feel fantastically beautiful and ready to take on the new school year.

Back then I didn't know why, Why you were misunderstood

I am very angry with my mother. The mere thought of her contacting me makes my skin boil and my eyes darken.
It wasn’t always that way. For a long time I always had a soft spot for my mother, she was after all the women who gave birth to me and she was so good at spinning words, ideas, and dreams in my head that it was hard for me to not believe her when she would tell me things were going to be better. No I didn’t always hold such anger and resentment towards her, in fact she was often the one I sought comfort in.

When I was 10 and seemed to have sat in something that caused my white pants to be stained in red. My sister asked me if I had started my period and she asked me in a way that made me think that a period was bad. Something forbidden like reading dirty magazines or thinking about sex. I remember holding back tears, running into my mother’s room leaving my friends who had spent the night behind and crawling into her arms to cry softly.

I was horrified and I remember sobbing and telling my mother I was sorry and that I didn’t mean to. She held me in her arms petting my hair and wiping my tears explaining to me that a period was not a bad thing and that it was something all women would experience. Her eyes filled with tears as she told me that her baby was growing up and becoming a woman. She told me when she got her first period she had laid on basement floor crying, convinced she was dying. I can still smell the Smokey smell of her skin and hair from her 2-pack a day habit. I remember her raspy laugh when I apologized and the way she was able to comfort my fears and ease my tears. I remember laying there in her arms and feeling safe, feeling okay.

For being such a smart kid I’m not sure why I never caught on to the fact that my mother was sick and truly needed help. I just knew I wanted to believe her and so I did. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that the rose colored glasses finally came off and I finally saw my mother for what she was to me. Even in her sickness I still cannot find it in my heart to forgive her. I began to resent her for fighting to keep my siblings and I when we could have been placed in better homes. I resented her for using my grandparents instead of raising us. I resented the lies she fed us. More so now than then I resented the lack of structure and the constant state of moving. It has left me so completely lost in myself and insecure of stability.

I began to feel anger and hatred for her actions and started blaming her for the way I was and the person I was becoming. Maybe if she would have loved us more and wasn’t so selfish we wouldn’t be such a broken family. I would not be such a broken person. It is very hard for me to not dwell on these ideas as many of my friends are getting engaged and my own sister talks of marriage and with my grandmothers passing, I find myself now more than ever wanting a mother. Because I listen to my friends talk about mother daughter situations and I see how the kids I nanny for interact with their mother and I find my soul searching for that same bond.

So perhaps it's reasons like when I pass by that diamond shaped bottle filled with its amber liquid I instinctively pluck it from the counter and inhale it. It has the power to take me back to the times when my mother was a beautiful person and things would be good. The irony being that the smell of her perfume always meant she was going somewhere and would be gone for awhile one and two days at time. My brother Michael and I knew the cue as we sat in our living room fighting over what to watch that anytime the wavering scent of Tresor By Lancome came into the room we would both instinctively stop what we were doing and shout “Where are you going mom? Are you coming home tonight?” Because we knew that regardless she would be spending Sunday in bed sleeping after an extensive night of alcohol and drugs.

And yet still, even knowing what her weekends entailed, the aroma of Tresor still is innocent to me and I miss the mother who held me in her arms and calmed my fears.

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.