If My Hands Stop Working, You Can Call Me Lazy

Oh, Professor... You Done Good.

2011-09-24T10:02:00.006-04:00

Good morning, kiddies! As you well know, a few years back, I moved to New York for an MFA program at City College. When I got here, I met some rad muthafuckin' people. I mean, seriously, these people are the shit. You don't even know how unlucky you are not to know them too.

One of those favorite people is Lyn Di Iorio. (I also really like her husband and her cats.) I met her my second semester at City College when I took her class: Magical Realism in the Americas and Beyond. The only reason I won't say this was my favorite class at City is because I took a couple more of her classes.

Here's the thing, Lyn isn't what you'd always expect. She's this tiny, pretty woman who, at first glance, appears a little bit quiet and maybe even timid. But that first glance, kiddies? It's a lie.

Lyn is a total weirdo... in the best possible sense of the word. She's noisy and smart and into the same shit as me, and you know, my shit... it just ain't popular. When we first bonded, it was because I was rudely urging her to watch The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. And she was totally receptive to my urging. Seriously, you know I found my academic soul mate in this woman, right?

But here's the thing, she's not just an academic. She's a writer, too. And she's a damn fucking good writer. I mean, yeah, I have read novels and stories and essays by a shit ton of my friends, and most of the time, I am sitting at my computer trying to figure out what the hell to say that won't hurt their feelings. ("I really liked the setting" usually means "That part sucked slightly less than all the others.") It's tough when friends ask you to read their novels. It's even tougher when those novels suck.

But Lyn's novel is the shit, dudes.

You can find a bit about the novel here. I don't feel like pasting it all in. Why? Because I'm lazy, and is it really that hard for you to click over there and read it yourselves? I mean, Christ, I gave a you a link. Get off my back.

It's tough for me to know what to say to get you to read this book. I feel like once you click over to her site, you'll see why you'd want to. Maybe I should stop talking about it and just let you get through it.

But I won't do that.

I'll tell you that the book is funny and sexy and scary and completely unexpected in the best possible way. It takes you places you've never been, and it's a hell of a ride. Chapter to chapter, the book is so varied in setting and tone, that you get a feel for the kind of writer Lyn Di Iorio is. She's one we'll be glad to have. She's going to do amazing things.

Hell, she already has.

Buy this book! Read this book! And then report back to me.

Another Couple of Months on the Roller Coaster

2011-08-27T13:05:00.002-04:00

I'm in the middle of a hurricane's path here, and while many folks in my neighborhood are stocking up on batteries for their flashlights and waiting in line for an hour to buy bottled water, I am sitting in my bedroom watching V. Yes, V. And yes, the original V. For some reason, I just can't get it up for a category 1 hurricane that isn't even going to affect my area of Manhattan. Sure, a power outage would suck, but what kid from the Midwest doesn't know how to live for a few days without power. This is all not to mention the fact that I have nothing in my apartment for which batteries are required except remote controls, and if the power goes out, those won't be of any use to me anyway.

Eh, at least I have four million books.

In the ensuing hours, I plan to watch V (original miniseries, Final Battle, and complete series) as long as the power holds out. I'll eat things I can cook as long as my stove works, and I will take a shower everyday.

I suppose this all sounds like I'm doing rather well, and in most respects, I seem to be kicking ass while there's ass to be kicked. I am starting a graduate program in social work at Columbia University in less than a week. I have a field placement at NYU starting in less than a month. I'm predictably excited about these things. I can't wait to be helpful to someone, as a few select people have been helpful to me.

I'm also nervous. I want to be sure that I am the best advocate I can be for each person I meet. I think, in order to do this, I will need to take everything I do in school and at my internship seriously, to put in as much effort as I can.

It's a belief of mine that if I weren't worried about being good at this job, it would be impossible for me to actually be that.

But in spite of all the good that's coming my way and my confidence that I will be able to handle the work load, some things have been happening. I've been working through some stuff with Therapist. When I was accepted to Columbia, I told Therapist that I wanted to switch gears and focus entirely on trauma, to get through as much as possible before school starts. We did this, and something has happened as a result.

Through totally non-suggestive hypnosis that opened the door for very clear flashbacks and intrusive memories, I have opened a door that I will never be able to close. (And yes, I feel ashamed of using the "door" metaphor. It really is appropriate though.) I have let some things out of my head that change everything I have thought and done for my entire life.

These memories taint me. They taint my history. They taint my family. They ruin me. Of course, this feeling of being ruined is not new to me. I've always felt it. It's only now that I understand why I feel this way. I'm sorry to be so vague, but this is a situation in which my need to be secretive is more important than my need to be honest.

As Therapist said the other day, "Some new shit has come to light." (If you get that reference, and you know anything about me, you will see why I'm so attached to Therapist.) And that new shit is permanently changing the landscape of my life. Changes will be mad that will make a great deal of difference. Certain ties will be cut. Others will be amended.

I don't know how, in this rather small post, to give these memories their proper weight. I can say this makes "really bad thing" seem like an afternoon frolicking with Mary Poppins and her penguin pals. I can say that I don't even know how to get through the day without wishing I had a different history... a different everything. I can say that every time I close my eyes, I have sense memories that take over my entire body and throw me into a full-blown panic. I can say that I don't even really know if living with this is something I can rightly do.

Yet, here I sit. I'm making the effort. And I can only hope that no one asks like an insensitive asshole because I might just shave their eyelids off with a Lady Bic.

Hope you're well, kiddies!

Everyday Is Like Sunday

2011-05-13T16:22:00.004-04:00

Again I owe you all an apology. I've been a bad, bad blog friend. I have been away since the end of February, and oh so much has happened since then. It's been the best of times and the worst of times.... Okay, not really. It's just been roller coaster-y, if you dig my meaning.

To begin, I know you remember how I used to bitch and moan about my 9 to 5er, and I know you used to get super bored every time I would talk about people at work who make me want shave their eyelids off with a Lady Bic, so you can consider yourself lucky. You will never have to read that again. I officially no longer work at Ye Olde Children's Book Publisher. But, why? you inevitably ask. Have you been fired? Of course not. I've only been fired once in my life, and that was for sexual reasons (make of that what you will). I was laid off, which means one important thing.

I am receiving unemployment.

Now you are asking, Do you feel like a leprechaun riding a unicorn through a sea of skittles? You are wondering, Have you ever experienced such joy? You think, She must be the happiest unemployed writer in the world.

Well, blog friends, you would be wrong. When Bossman told me he was laying me off, both he and I looked as if we were about to cry. He was very kind to me, and I am absolutely incapable of having anything but the warm fuzzies for the dude. It probably helps that he named his kids all super righteous names that would make any chick happy to date them when they grow up. But no, it's mostly that he's the best boss a mostly overweight and sometimes hilarious lesbian nerd could ever hope for.

As that relationship ended, I did feel a little relief. I should be totally honest in saying that I did sort of hate the job. There was nothing uniquely terrible about it. It's just your usual totally underpaid for work I have been more than trained for and yet makes me feel like my soul has been removed and replaced with the burning hot coals that fuel Satan's train system.

But as the days spilled on, I became despondent. I was applying for five jobs a day, and no one was calling me back. I was desperate to get back into the workforce. I was bored, and I was lonely, and I was slowly beginning to think that I would become homeless, as I am still having very terrible trouble paying my bills.

I spent my only outside-the-apartment time with Therapist, who was kind and encouraging and trying very hard to make sure I didn't fall off the ledge.

And then something happened.

I got into Columbia University.

I KNOW!

And then something else happened.

I got into New York University.

I KNOW AGAIN!

I expected neither of those things. I really did think I was going to be on the dole until the dole ran out and that after that I would surely become homeless and hooker-y. But lo, I do not have to sell my exceedingly grotesque body to the highest (and lowest) bidder, for I am entering the ivy-covered halls of Columbia University (where I will procure even more student loans), and eventually I will come out on the other side capable of actually helping people.

Yes, this is super awesome good news, and it has rendered me mostly cheerful in the face of some still daunting and difficult therapeutic tasks. With the aid of Therapist, I have decided it would be smart to dig, dig, dig for this summer before school starts and I am faced with some difficult situations. (Did I say I was studying social work?)

Since getting into Columbia, Therapist and I have tentatively begun dealing with many of the "issues" I keep putting off. For instance, Therapist now has a list of all the traumas I have ever experienced. (Yeah, I know.) It took me forever to make that list and actually send it to her. It probably didn't help that every time I looked at it, I was convinced my heart was going to pop out of my chest. She's also coming close to being the recipient of a list of everything I hate about my body.

What all this movement has done to me is... well, it's rendered me sort of frozen? I'm feeling less than whole. I'm feeling angry every time a pretty girl says something like, "I'm so fat." I'm feeling ashamed every time I walk by a mirror. But this is the process, right? Things get worse before they get better? I fucking hope so.

Sorry for the not-so-funny and mostly rushed post. I just wanted to be sure you didn't think I was dead or that I'm in the booby hatch again. Just got shit going on.

Lata, friends!

The Anniversary (And No, I Am Not Talking About That Awesome Bette Davis Movie Wherein She Yells at People and You Feel Gleeful)

2011-02-25T13:54:00.004-05:00

Hello again, dear blog friends. I wanted to write to you yesterday, but as luck would have it, my boss was in the office, and I was really busy, and then I went to see Hobo with a Shotgun, and I am pretty sure you know that means I was otherwise engaged in seriously important goings-on... what with all the intestines flying about and all.

This week marked a date of moderate importance in the life of your humble narrator. Wednesday marked the one-year anniversary of my overdose. As the date approached, I became more and more anxious. I was sure this date would make or break me. I was sure I would either do it again and die, or I would not do it and feel worlds better on Thursday. Yes, this is simplistic and silly, but when you have weeks (nay! months!) to ruminate on a topic, you can come to some rather bizarre conclusions.

It turned out that neither of these particular outcomes were realistic. As you can see, I did not do it again, and I did not die. As you are probably assuming, I do not magically feel worlds better. I am sure many of you are sitting back in your chairs sniping, "Of course not, you fool. February 23rd is merely a date." To this I say, "It is merely a date to you. To me it is a milestone."

As much as I hate the entire notion of milestones, they do seem to pile up on us, don't they? I have always wanted to be a person who wasn't ticking days off a calendar, who was on no schedule other than her own, who never considered being too young or too old for anything, but becoming a crazy person has realigned my understanding of time and its meaning.

Time is now ticked off between breakdowns, between hospitalizations, between days one wants to die. It's a reality to which I have grown accustomed--no matter how much I rail against it. I no longer count successes. I count survivals. And I still measure my hours alone.

When Wednesday rolled around, I expected to feel something new. I am not sure what that new feeling was, but I thought for sure that the world would open up to me and that I would feel brave and capable and like maybe I wasn't going to stay in stasis forever. I thought I would finally feel like recovery was an option and that I wasn't just marking time in a Therapist's office wishing she could say some magical thing that would make this endless fucking pain go away. I thought I would suddenly know--not just feel but know--that allowing my family to fade into the background was the right decision. I thought I would no longer wander streets in fear of every stranger I passed. I thought I would myself be somehow set free. (Yes, just typing such a cliche makes me sick, but it's the truth... and you know, humble documentarian and all that.)

None of these things was my reality. I awoke in the morning with the knowledge of what day it was, of what I had done just a year earlier, of the act of taking pills at first one-by-one and then two-by-two, of the heart inside my chest trying to break out, of collapsing on the bathroom floor. I had the knowledge of my hands grasping at the tube going painfully up my nose. I felt those other hands restraining me. I remembered the fear of "Someone is hurting me, and I can't stop it!" I remembered waking up and passing out again. I remembered finally staying conscious for more than a minute and discovering IVs and oxygen masks. There was the ever-present one-to-one sitting watchful over my bed as I tried to make phone calls but was unable to press the correct numbers. She was flipping through magazines as I tried to speak and was shocked to hear the words coming out of me were not the ones running through my head. She held her vigil while I tried to rise and walk to the bathroom only to fall over and be forced to use a bedpan, a humiliation I hope to avoid for many years to come. This is what was in my head as I greeted Wednesday morning.

I took all of this with me when I went to Therapist's office. I sat on her couch and listened to her tell me of muscle memory and how the body remembers traumas, and I asked her what I was supposed to do. "You're supposed to leave here and go to work." I was supposed to have an ordinary day, a task that seemed impossible. And still I committed. I left her office, and I went to work.

I sat at my desk reading Plath and Rilke on that website with all those full-text poems. I acted like it was a normal day. I left for lunch and to buy the new PJ Harvey album because I was acting like today was any other day. I walked down the street and found $100 on the ground. Because that can only happen on an ordinary day.

I went back to my desk laughing, yes laughing, on this of all days. I felt good. I felt momentarily safe, something I chase and chase and can never seem to catch. For a moment I had my ideal milestone day. I was free. I had recovered. I felt so brave and so capable that I went home and watched it, that movie that preceded the overdose. Thinking simplistically yet again, I wanted to win. I wanted to watch it, and I wanted to survive. I wanted to know I could be in that situation again and not do the same thing.

At first I sat there finding Burgess Meredith amusing, wishing Eileen Heckart would get "drunk and unfortunate." I was fine. I was watching this movie that I thought would kill me, that I thought had so much power, and I was fine.

But then the images began flooding me. Sitting on my bed cross-legged. Pouring a bottle of ninety Seroquel into my hand. Blue sweat pants. My dog asleep in her chair. One by one. The mid-day light coming in through the window. The opera singer next door. Two by two. Rising from the bed. The walk down the hall. The heart inside my chest. A stumble and fall onto the bathroom floor.

And this body one year older than last, it was afraid. It was dying. Or at least it believed it was. And this mind was too fragile to handle it. It reacted as if I was in those moments, as if I was in immediate danger of the ending I'd sought earlier. And it wanted to stop it. I had to escape. I left my apartment and began walking around the block. Movement was the only solution I had at the moment, and I reached out to Therapist. And eventually I settled down into bed, and I fell asleep and greeted the next day and now the next day after that.

I am still alive. I never expected to be a person for whom that was a challenge. I never expected to want the opposite more days than not. I still have no idea how to understand this change. I still cannot properly describe what it means to have been a person who knew she could do anything and to discover she can do so little. But right now that doesn't matter. I am still alive.

A Little Workday Story to Tide You Over Until I Return Again (Also, There Is a Photo of a Turtle Breathing Fire)

2011-02-11T17:00:00.006-05:00

Let me just preface this whole thing by saying, I am filled with an inexcusable and frightening amount of rage this week. Yes, I know I am PMSing, and yes, I know I am generally a cranky old lady, but I seriously will cut a bitch if he or she fucks with me today. The level of irritability contained within my not-so-humbly-sized bosom is powerful enough to melt what's left of the ice caps because... you know, this is what I am like.

This turtle could kick all your asses at once.

I tell you all this not because rage is funny; although, it often is. I tell you because it will give you some context for our anecdote for today.

As many of you know, I work in educational publishing. Specifically I work for a corporation we all knew and loved as children because they gave us super cheap books. What I do for them, however, has more to do with actual reading programs. I make trade books... like cheapo editions of The Phantom Tollbooth that are incorporated into the actual curriculum to help struggling readers.

Someone told me this week that this book is for older children. I find this hard to believe. Weigh in, folks. I read this shit when I was ten.

As it is my department's (read: solely my) responsibility to manage every aspect of their production, we have a trade book library on our floor. Within said library are editions of almost every book we have ever made. We also have a separate product library that is filled with all of the teaching components for these various programs. (Some of you teachers out there have heard of this, I'm sure.)

Both of these libraries are locked so others cannot gank our books and never return them. This is sensible decision, as books and office supplies routinely disappear from my desk unless I put a specific note that says: DO NOT REMOVE. There are four sets of keys to these to libraries. They are doled out as follows: 1) belongs to my boss and sits in his top desk drawer for anyone to borrow, 2) belongs to the Proofreading manager and sits on her desk for anyone to borrow, 3) belongs to a slightly subordinate member of our team, and 3) belongs to my boss's boss.

To clarify, anytime I need to get into the library, I go to my boss's desk and obtain the keys. I then go to the library and get the product, and I then return the keys. Simple enough, no? The entire process takes me about five minutes--unless the book is in the wrong place, which happens way more than it should.

So yesterday, I received the following email from my boss who was sitting at his desk.

From: Boss
Date: February 10, 2011 9:50 AM
TO: Me
CC: Other Subordinate With Keys
Subject: Permission Request for Stage C Teaching Component

Missy,
Can you get a stage C book from the library?
Thanks.

And that's it.

Now, in case you aren't clear on why this seems FUCKING INSANE to me, let me reiterate. In order for me to do this, I would have to take the following steps.

Me ---> Boss's Desk ---> Library ---> Boss's Desk

See below for Boss's steps.

Boss ---> Library

I am hoping at this point you can see how fucking inefficient this is. It seems almost intentionally degrading as well. Now, my boss is a very nice man. And I think he is even probably a very decent guy, albeit a little too interested in sports. But I have had the feeling over the years that he doesn't exactly approve of the fact that I would RATHER GUT MYSELF WITH AN EXACTO KNIFE than work here for more than a few years.

I am not sure if he is picking up on my judgment of this workplace or not, but ever since he took on the New Temp (whom I may begin referring to as Hipster Cool), he seems much more enamored with her than he does with me. This is okay. I don't intend to get much out of my employment here. I mean, I don't even get a subsistence-level income, so what the hell can you do, right?

I do, however, expect that a person who is not a total asshole would not make me do something so illogical and slavish for the sake of saving himself a few minutes of time.

Okay, okay, maybe I shouldn't be pissed about this.

But try this on for size. You see that person up there that he cc'd? That guy has a set of keys too, and he sits immediately beside the library. Do you know where that book ended up? ON HIS FUCKING DESK!

That is all I will say in this matter. I believe I have made my point.

No Locks. No Heat. No Patience.

2011-01-21T11:31:00.003-05:00

Well, children, I moved again. I moved to a new place in upper Harlem/lower Washington Heights. To be honest, I am not really sure what neighborhood to call it, but I don't care because my Indian restaurant still delivers to my house, and that's pretty much the only thing that matters.

So Austrian Friend and I move into this place, and we love it. Well, we love it except that it's cold and it doesn't lock. So we call the Super, and we call the company, and I would type out this entire experience, but let's just leave it at they owe us a ton of money, and we finally have so much heat the apartment is a sauna, and I have been opening and closing moderately functional radiators with a Winchester multi-tool's pliers. (Aside: I really thought pliers was spelled plyers. Just goes to show... what exactly? That sometimes I'm a dumbass? Yeah, I guess that's what it goes to show.)

I tell you this not-even-vaguely-interesting story not because you are totally fascinated by the ins and outs of renting an apartment in a city with the worst understanding of customer service, but so you will understand the stress context of the rest of this post. This post is, after all, a treatment post and not a "my landlord is a douchebag" post.

Kids, I am not doing so well. My suicidality is through the roof. I can't stop crying. Lifting my giant body out of bed to go to work takes up what feels like all the energy I have. I have had to go off one of my medications, and I am looking at going off another. My moods are completely out of control.

As a result of these changes, I am beginning to feel like I just can't handle the ebbs and flows of BPD. How am I supposed to always be able to convince myself not to die? I have methods of stalling myself, of slowing down my brain to prevent myself from acting on impulse, which is what this usually is, an impulse. But in the long term, what happens when these methods stop working? Do I just die? Most days, that seems like the right answer. And I feel even more ridiculous typing that out loud here. I mean, I am Wonder Woman, after all. I'm not supposed to want to die all the time.

I was talking with a friend of mine this week, and we were debating how some people seem to be built with a self-destruct button. He thinks I am one of them. We're wondering if maybe people like me are a part of natural selection. Maybe we're supposed to flare up, O.D., and exit this world to make room for those who are stronger.

He, of course, thinks I am incredibly strong. He thinks having a list of traumas I have endured makes me strong. He thinks that being abused and living to tell the tale (as if I actually tell the tale) is a sign of my being impervious. He's not the only one who thinks this. I have promoted this view point. After all, if someone thinks they can never hurt you, they stop trying. Looking like the biggest bad ass in the room is the surest way to keep people from fucking with you. This has worked really well for me for twenty-seven years. But in the last two years, my veneer is cracking. People are beginning to see me as the broken thing I am. I have become the Identified Patient among my friends. It's humiliating and devastating. I feel weaker than I've ever felt. And for every day that something enters the cracks and injures, I get more and more suicidal in subsequent days, and it gets harder and harder to combat.

I had a session with Therapist this week that really did not go well. I know that's a strange way to put it. I mean, should therapy ever go well? Well, yes, it should. What that means is that I should not leave Therapist's office feeling battered. I've spent this whole week desperately needing her help but refusing to contact her. Am I doing this to punish her, hoping I'll kill myself and she'll feel guilty?

Yes, sometimes I can be that childish.

But in this case, I don't think that's why I haven't contacted her. Yes, I am in crisis. And yes, I need help, but after this week, I trust her less. And I can't ask for help from someone I don't trust. Fuck, therapeutic relationships are extremely tenuous, no?

This post is going nowhere. It's an update, yes. It's got tons of useless information.

At least I've been honest, no matter how embarrassing that honesty has been. I'm in a shitty place, and I am trying to hide it from people, and it's wearing me out. And with the stressful context of an apartment that is falling apart and cannot be fixed, well, I am having trouble holding it together, and I am feeling very much like I am doing it on my own. This is a common feeling for me, but right now, I need to not be doing it on my own.

Le sigh, as the French call it.

Survey Says....

2011-01-02T09:56:00.002-05:00

Ask yourself this: Am I too clever to put together a year-end best-of list? If you said "yes," well, then you must be new here. Clearly, I am about as original as white bread, so here I am with yet another year end list, one that doesn't even stray that much from Ebert's year end list, so maybe it's not worth reading at all.

Wow. I really know how to sell myself, don't I?

Without further ado, here are my picks for the top ten best movies of 2010!

10) Chloe, dir. Atom Egoyan

This little gem from Atom Egoyan didn't get the props it deserved. It seems to me that everyone--even our old standby Roger Ebert--read this film as something it isn't. While it might come in the shell of a film about sex and desire, it is really a film about economics and how one's lack of resources can and will destroy them. It's a tragedy of the highest order, and I found myself mesmerized.

Oh yeah, that sex scene was hot, too.

9) Rabbit Hole, dir. John Cameron Mitchell

Boy did I really not expect this film to be any good. It comes packaged as a giant cliche begging for the tears of its audience. And while it is one of the saddest films on this list, it was not cliched at all. As opposed to the mourning you would expect from a film about a couple who's lost a child. This is an angry, angry film. And rightly so, I think. It packs expert performances from everyone involved. Pay close attention to Dianne Wiest. She's a wonder.

8) All Good Things, dir. Andrew Jarecki

Andrew Jarecki (director of the brilliant documentary Capturing the Friedmans) brings us a true crime thriller that bests the ones you've seen before. Bolstered by an incredibly bizarre and freaky true story in addition to outstanding performances from Frank Langella (surprise, surprise), Ryan Gosling (as if we could expect less at this point), and Kirsten Dunst (finally acting like a woman instead of a girl and stealing her every scene). I can't help but say I was surprised by this flick. It's limited distribution within NY was a concern, but once I'd seen it all my apprehensions just melted away.

7) Winter's Bone, dir. Debra Granik

Holy Bejesus, has it been a long time since a film felt so familiar. When I saw this film, I was sure I was having a flashback of my childhood. I knew these people. I'd grown up with them. Granted, I've never retrieved my father's hands from the bottom of a pond, but still....

Again I say that the film is made what it is by its top notch performances. Jennifer Lawrence as Ree Dolly is a sight to behold, and she is brilliantly complemented by John Hawkes as Teardrop. The film is by turns tragic, terrifying, and somehow uplifting. It's one I've been thinking about for months.

6) True Grit, dir. Joel and Ethan Coen

It shouldn't surprise anyone that this film made the list. What might surprise you is that I disagree with all the reviews. While everyone seems to think this is not a "Coen Brothers" movie in the traditional sense, I found the dialogue to be extremely of the "Coen Brothers" style. I'm sure you know what I mean. And if you don't, what are you doing here?

I was surprised to find myself actually impressed with Matt Damon, but perhaps I shouldn't be. While the Coens do many things well, they do nothing as well as casting their movies. They are experts at sniffing out exactly who will be the perfect person for this role or that, and True Grit is no exception.

5) Another Year, dir. Mike Leigh

For the past couple months, I have been sitting in the theater seeing this trailer over and over and over. And every single time I saw it I couldn't help but think that I was watching a trailer for what might be the best film of the year. Another Year is the happiest film on this list. While there is tragedy within, it's true strength lies in the way it mitigates that tragedy with love and laughter. As we should all know, this is something Mike Leigh does very well. And he is at his best here.

4) The King's Speech, dir. Tom Hooper

While I am surprised to be typing this, The King's Speech is hands down the funniest movie of the year. And that is saying something in a year that saw the release of Piranha 3D (see below). I saw this film as a late show and my third feature film of the day. I was in the position to be utterly bored by it. It's a testament to its greatness that I was wide awake and giggling throughout.

While the film is remarkable in every sense of the word, it did one thing that mattered more to me than anything else. It brought back Helena Bonham Carter. Oh, how I miss the Merchant Ivory version of her. And I was oh-so-glad to welcome her back.

3) Somewhere, dir. Sofia Coppola

I have to say that the top three movies this year are in an epic battle for these three spots. Choosing which of these top three should go where was like totally the hardest thing I have ever done... except, you know, Prolonged Exposure and having surgery and all that kind of shit.

But still... epic.

Sofia Coppola's newest film cements for me that she is definitely much more talented than her father. I am going to be hunted down for that one. With Somewhere, she shows exactly what it is like to be no one, to feel nothing. It's an incredible series of images she provides here and one I find a little too familiar.

2) Blue Valentine, dir. Derek Cianfrance

Holy cow. For serious. This is some heartbreaking shit. As many of you likely know, the film splits its time between the beginning of a relationship and the breakdown of a marriage. And it is every bit as tragic as that sounds. But even while it manages to be the saddest shit released all year, it was not at all cliched or expected. It was... in a word... perfect. A perfect movie.

1) White Material, dir. Claire Denis

When I saw this movie on my birthday last month, I was ten thousand percent sure that it would take the number one spot. And while others fought valiantly, nothing could beat it. Claire Denis's film is one you'd expect to be one of those "white people in Africa" stories. And it is, but it so isn't. Yes, the film carries the subtext of white colonialism, but more so than politics, this is a film about obsession.

And no one does a better job being obsessed than Isabelle Huppert.

RUNNERS UP:

I understand that not ALL of my favorite movies can make my top ten list. As a result, I bring you my runners up. Judge all you like, but each of these films was masterful at doing exactly what it tried to do.

Piranha 3D
Bitch Slap
Greenberg
The Kids Are All Right

You will also notice two films lacking on my list. I have my reasons. See below.

Black Swan, dir. Daron Aronofsky
Eff this movie super hard. I recognize that I have a bit of a disproportionate hate-on for this movie, but really, it just isn't that fucking great. And every single film I chose was better. So eat me, viewing public. Eat me. Also, I am sick of seeing Natalie Portman make that face.

The Social Network, dir. David Fincher
Never seen it. Don't care about it. No matter how hard I try, I just don't give a fuck about this movie.

WTF

2010-12-13T10:02:00.002-05:00

Yes, I'm Still Alive (Not That You Were Worried About That)

2010-12-07T16:05:00.006-05:00

This is my Happy Birthday to Me (no, not the awesome movie) post. Sunday was my birthday. I turned 29. And while many people freak out about the year on their driver's licenses seeming further and further away, I tend to think, "Eh. Fuck it. Whose schedule am I on anyway?" When I answer that I realize, I really don't give a shit that I am 29 and already have a bevy of very visible gray hairs atop my head.

While I may not care about my age, I do care about my birthday. It's always just a bit after Thanksgiving, which, when I was a kid was like pretty much asking to have people forget it and make you feel unloved. As an adult, well, let's just say I have had problems making it a good day. For example, last year, as I rang in the 28th year of my life, I was locked in a psychiatric unit. Granted, it was a nice unit, but I am pretty sure someone threw something at some point or someone tried to hang herself or they cut a bitch or something like that, and the best the hospital could offer me was an additional guest during evening visiting hours. As a result, I thought maybe I was like Buffy Summers, and I just couldn't have a good birthday. I mean, after all, she did say, "You could probably smash all my toes in with a hammer, and that would still make it the bestest Buffy birthday bash ever."

My sentiments exactly, my superhero friend.

This year, I thought, I can manage to make the birthday a good fucking time. I mean, if I make all the choices, then it can't turn bad, right? Plus, I've been drinking again, and what isn't more fun when you've had six glasses of wine?

I email my friends (only a few) and invite them to dinner at The Slaughtered Lamb. Yes, okay, I know The Slaughtered Lamb is a real pub in Northern England, but you know I made everyone go there because of An American Werewolf in London. (John Landis, I love you, and I believe you deserve a daily blowjob, but you won't be getting it from me.)

Prior to the party for moi was my work Christmas party (or Holiday House Party as Scholastic chose to call it). (Look, I am from a place where you couldn't find a Jew if your life depended on it, and if you don't think December 25th is Christ's birthday, then you are probably going to get stoned to death, so don't blame me if I can't help but call every winter party a Christmas party. Blame my lame-o parents who refused to raise me with the concept "religions other than Catholicism." Thankfully, I know better now, but I can't seem to shake this whole Christmas party thing.) So I go to the work Christmas party--pretty much because I get to leave work early, and I would punch your baby in the face for that opportunity. And I go into the other building, and I eat some brussel sprouts, and I drink five glasses of wine (in less than an hour and a half), and I chat up some coworkers who have never really spoken to me before, and I am feeling good.

And then I get to The Slaughtered Lamb, and my friends are all awesome, and they all really like each other, and I eat fish and chips, and it's pretty good, and I drink some vodka, and things are going great. And I decide, wisely, to head home instead of going to the karaoke place because I prefer not to embarrass myself--even when I have been drinking copiously--and I am totally aware that karaoke + vodka + Pat Benatar = Mortified Missy.

And you know, after such a successful Friday, I think, "Awesome. My birthday is Sunday, and I have cool plans, and so far this birthday is boss."

But then I wake up on Saturday, and I am hungover--because Scholastic buys cheap fucking wine, and I didn't specify that I wanted Grey Goose when I was having my birthday vodka. And then... I was all, well, I was all hair of the dog about things, and I started drinking... a lot. At nine o'clock in the morning. And I was seriously drunk by about eleven o'clock in the morning. I polished off one bottle of super cheap vodka by 1pm, and then I promptly opened another. And at about 5pm, I was plummeted into one of the worst depressions I have ever been in.

As I am trained to do, I texted Therapist. I texted her a string of very embarrassing and weak text messages that she didn't get until about an hour later. She texted back asking me where I was and could I make a safety plan with her, and of course, I was too drunk to do much of anything except say, "My legs feel weird. I think I need to go to sleep." Except, you know, I didn't manage to do that without typos. Yeah, I am a classy broad.

(Aside: I remember none of this. I simply know from the string of texts hiding in wait in my cell phone to embarrass me whenever I open my conversation with Therapist.)

Because Therapist is having no luck reaching me, she says that she needs to call Doctor. Of course, I immediately start bargaining, "I'll do whatever I have to. Please don't call her." And "She's going to overreact." All the while Therapist is telling me not to sleep because I could asphyxiate. (This I did not know. Food for thought, y'all.) Apparently drunken text logic just isn't enough for Therapist, and she does call Doctor. And then Doctor calls me.

And this is when things take a turn.

Doctor tells me I need to go to the hospital. I need to be seen by a doctor and a psychiatrist. I begin bargaining with her, but she is even less receptive to it than Therapist, and I am sure the fact that I could barely say anything without stumbling over words like they were tripwires had nothing at all to do with her decision.

And she called Emergency Services.

I slowly begin to realize that she is probably going to call EMS, and I decide the right thing to do is to quickly vacate my apartment and hide out in case they come to my door. (Yes, I realize that this is possibly the most childish reaction I could have.) But this is all to no avail because by the time I get down there, I am greeted by a horde of NYC Police Officers who want me to get into an ambulance. I try to calmly convince them that I shouldn't go, and I try to convince Doctor to tell them that I don't need to go, but the person who can barely stand is always the loser in these situations. (Plus, the lady cop said I smelled like vodka.) And I was packed into an ambulance and sent to Columbia Presbyterian.

I arrived there at around 7pm. (Keep track of this timeline, folks.) And I was not allowed to sleep, and I was promptly put on IV fluids, and I was sobering up rather quickly. By the time a doctor came by to see me, I was stone-cold sober and ready to leave, but the doctors had other ideas, "You know the drill. You're not leaving here. You've been grossly intoxicated within the last 24hrs. You are staying overnight."

And so I sat... and I waited.... and I finally fell asleep at about 7am. (Are you still keeping track of this timeline?) At this point I am seven hours into my actual birthday, and I am pretty sure it already sucks so intensely that I want to swear off birthdays for the rest of my natural life.

I was awakened again by movement at 9am. And then I sat there waiting... waiting.... waiting... to talk to a shrink so I could make my 15-block journey home to my apartment, take a shower, and fall asleep.

At around 2pm, I was finally released. I ran home, and I took a shower, and I threw out all the booze in my apartment, and I ran quickly out of the apartment to go to an AA meeting. (Yes, such an experience has taught me that maybe some things in my life need to change.) And then I met Erik for a movie.

All was not lost, but it was pretty fucking close.

How was your last birthday?

Update on the Sads

2010-11-23T14:39:00.002-05:00

My poor little doggy died this weekend. Expect a real update when things hurt less.

Look Not Everything Can Be Funny

2010-11-08T17:25:00.006-05:00

I'm in one of those rage-so-hot-I-could-set-a-kitten-on-fire-with-my-laserbeam-eyes spirals. For you see, I've been at work. And I know everyone hates his or her job (you know, except for the really lucky people, and we like to assume that they have no friends, that no one loves them, they can't pay their bills, and of course, God smites them), but bear with me, okay? My job is no more special than anyone else's. Of course not. How could I be so arrogant to assume that making trade books for reading intervention programs is somehow more important than what anyone else does? What it does afford me, however, is a plethora of rage time. As a result... a few notes before moving on...

1) Look, just because you send me something via electronic routing system doesn't mean I am going to look at it immediately.

2) Just because something has been looked at (by everyone except me) four different times doesn't mean I am going to approve it.

3) I am not your teacher.

4) Just because you are in a "better" department doesn't mean the work you do is more important.

Okay... now that's out of the way, we can talk about something more important.

What, you ask, could possibly be more important than interoffice bitching? Me! Or... I guess it's not really me. It's... shit I have to do to, you know, stop being crazy. Ugh. Why am I being so evasive today? Huh? HUH? HUH!?

I have Dialectical Behavior Therapy group tonight.

And I believe you should all be well-versed in the Missy-hates-going-to-group-and-would-remove-her-own-eyelids-with-a-rusted-penknife-to-avoid-it Monday afternoon rants. I mean, shit, I have told you that I hate going and that every Monday is an exercise in convincing me, but let's just get real, y'all.

I am in emotional special ed. (You can thank Hospital Friend for that one.)

DBT teaches me how to feel. BECAUSE UP UNTIL NOW I HAVEN'T BEEN DOING IT PROPERLY. (Take a moment to wrap your head around that.) I don't even really know how to process this shining fact about myself. How does one manage to not "feel" the right way? Well, I will tell you. By smooooshing all of her feelings down into some netherworld from whence they cannot return. And I know you're thinking you know someone who does this, and you know, you probably do, but I doubt you know someone who would travel through all of Dante's circles to make sure none of them every float up to the surface again and is all surprised when they still do and is even more surprised when he or she is rendered completely helpless in the face some ridiculous emotion about some childhood slight and when it happens it's all WHAT. THE. FUCK.

But that wasn't my point.

I am working on convincing myself to go to group right now. As I have said before, I usually end up looking like an asshole in group. You see, in order to make it bearable, I sort of try to look at like a graduate seminar. A group of people studying this theory who try to make sense of it together. And sometimes this works. Until I get to a page that tells me to "do something small everyday to gain a sense of mastery," and then I get all "Am I five? I need to trick myself into thinking my life is under my control?" And then I start asking these kinds of questions in the group, and everyone either looks at me like I am an asshole or as if I am speaking some language like what you would imagine the aliens from Invader Zim spoke if they had their own language and weren't just speaking the version of English spoken by the tree from The Last Unicorn. And then Therapist tries to combat what I am saying, and I guess she does all right.

The problem remains, though, this therapy doesn't let me pretend that I'm Wonder Woman. And that shit I cannot abide. I want to walk out of every room feeling like I was the strongest person in it. I want to walk in knowing no one can fuck with me or... you know. I want to be invulnerable.

What I've been learning throughout this treatment is that I can't be that anymore (or mayhaps I never was). I can't be unaffected. I can't be the bravest person in the room all the time. I can't be terrifying instead of terrified.

So this is where I am with this shit today. Forgive me for devolving in language. But sometimes it's tough to convince myself that my bravery was working against me.

Eh... fuck it.

You guys want some space peanuts?

How Was Your Weekend?

2010-11-08T14:27:00.003-05:00

It's been a rough few days in Washington Heights, my friends. Remember how I mentioned that I am a big ole raging alcoholic, and I'm not supposed to drink because when I do a kitten gets its legs broken? Remember? Well, this weekend ended a rough and awkward week for me, and as the hours ticked by at the j-o-b, I found myself thinking, "Methinks I will be gettin' drunk tonight." And that's exactly what I did.

Now, I know people get drunk all the time, and I know people don't have any shame about this, but I am not that person. I do not get drunk--ever. I do not stumble around the island looking for cabs with my eyes closed. I do not slur words. In fact, one might say I am rather articulate. But this weekend, I got so very drunk that I couldn't be responsible for myself, and I needed rescue.

So I go to this birthday party. A good friend of mine was turning thirty, and because some people think of thirty as a milestone, I wanted to be present to celebrate the day my friend damaged her mother's uterus and came screaming forth from her loins. As I was nervous about seeing various people, I thought, "Hey, I'm going to have a drink." That, of course, turned into many, and I became a blubbering drunken idiot in Midtown.

It was one of those moments we all know so well. We're feeling friendly... in a good mood, even. And then suddenly all that vodka says, "Hey, you have had more than enough to drink, and now you are gonna be wasted."

Thankfully, all of the alcohol seemed to really hit me as I walked out of the bar Friday night. I wasn't too terribly sloppy at the party itself. I got sloppier as the minutes passed, though, and as I urged Austrian Friend to let me take the subway, I sort of slumped over, and she shoved me into a cab. I was mumbling about sadness and how embarrassed I was, and my poor friend just kept my head still while we hurtled down FDR toward home.

She took me upstairs and put me to bed, making me promise not to take any pills, and I woke up in the morning still drunk. (Yes, I drank that much.) I proceeded to fall asleep by noon and sleep until about five or six.

So a kitten got its legs broken this weekend because of me. What did you do?

Things That Make Me Angry

2010-10-27T14:28:00.001-04:00

Then and than are NOT interchangeable.

There Is Blood in This Post

2010-10-22T14:20:00.001-04:00

So this is going to be one of those posts during which all the boys get grossed out because I am going to be totally honest about some female goings-on, and really, all the boys should just turn away now because I am not going to sugar-coat this shit, and in fact, any of you prissy-ass girls should really run for the hills, too, because we both know you can't handle a Tracy Jordan style truth bomb.

I am in the throes of PMS, ladies. (Yes, I am addressing the ladies. I told the boys to leave. Remember?) What this means is that, well, my juggs have exploded to epic proportions, and while they no longer fit in a non-full-coverage bra, I can beat strangers up on the subway with them. They also make a nice soda cozy when I am relaxing on the couch.

While I would like to take full use of my PMS boobs, I regret to tell you that I cannot. You see, just as my breasts become engorged with awesomeness, they also become something akin to a GIANT BRUISE. Yes, you see, I have these two sacks hanging from my chest and arguing over which one will give me more pain. Those boys complain about getting kicked in the balls, and I am sure that's quite painful, but it cannot be anything like having to carry two enormous and tender sacks of boob around with you a few days out of the month. I mean, come on fellas, I can't even sleep on my stomach.

In addition to my magical growing breasts (as friends have referred to them over the years), I also develop what can only be described as an extreme desire for ultraviolence. Imagine the below.

Coworker: Hey, Missy. I need you to help me with something.

Me: Eat me.

Coworker: What?

Me: I said, "What's up?"

Coworker: Well, I am looking at these proofs, and I am just not sure what to do about the red bar on a red background.

Me: Are you retarded?

(Yes, PMS Missy is incapable of accepting that retarded is an offensive word.)

Coworker: What did you say?

Me: I said you need to put a 1pt. white rule around it.

Coworker: So how would I note that?

Me: I am going to eat your face.

Coworker: I'm sorry?

Me: I said....

*rises from desk chair*

Me: ... I'm going to use your skull as my urinal.

Coworker: Um...

Me: And then I will feed your heart to my chihuahua because everyone knows when chihuahuas eat hearts they have the strength of ten men.

Coworker: What're you...

Me: Get away from me before I scratch all the skin off your face.

Coworker: So I'll just call Manufacturing and chat with them, right? Thanks.

So it goes something like that. Or at least it goes that way in my head. The struggle between my imagined conversations and the ones that actually happen is a tenuous one indeed. I believe it is only a matter of months before my fantasy abuses of various (relatively innocuous) coworkers comes to fruition. And then I will really have some explaining to do.

Is murdering someone because of PMS allowed yet? I mean, does it count as temporary insanity? Can they say I didn't know I had PMDD?

In any case, this period (ha! see what I did there?) only lasts three to four days. And then I move on to.... womanhood. About this I have one very important question.

HOW IS BLEEDING FROM THE VAGINA FOR FOUR DAYS AT ALL EFFICIENT?

I mean, don't get me wrong. I am all for evolution. I think it makes a hell of a lot more sense than, you know, God and shit. But this just seems to be a failing of the system. How can you tell me that having blood roll out from between your meat curtains is the best way to ensure that I can make babies with some hairy homo erectus? (Yes, homo erectus was on purpose and not an error of fact.) That shit just doesn't make sense. And how is it possible that we have yet to come up with a better plan for dealing with this?

Okay, so given that we accept the fact that we're going bleed from the spam purse for several days of the month, we now are faced with controlling said bleeding, no? The solution the innovative science world (probably the same bozos who've not found a way to stop the bleeding*) decide that they will give us two options for dealing with the blood that flows.

You can wear a diaper.

Or you can jam cotton up your twat.

Um... what? How is this the best plan? Yes, fellas (who should have left the room already) getting kicked in the balls sucks. And I am sure it also sucks to get a boner in your seventh grade English class. But you don't have to be haunted by your genitals on a monthly basis. You don't have to reach inside your axe wound and pull out a blood-soaked tampon string without vomiting into your own lap. Don't tell me you and your balls have got it hard. Fuck you and your balls.

In conclusion, when it comes to the genital lottery, the dudes have won. What? You think I'm wrong? Prove it.

And don't fuck with me or I'll scratch all the skin off your face.

*Yes, I realize that you can take some corrupt form of birth control that effs with your cycle, but I just don't trust that shit. And really, nor should you.

This Is One of Those Posts You Should Set on Fire

2010-10-18T10:09:00.006-04:00

As many of you know, I am a writer (and not just of this quality blog!) I graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing from some random school in some random city (read: CCNY in New York, so I guess it's not all that random; though, it really could have been because it doesn't matter that I went there, or anywhere for that matter, because writers are a dime a dozen, and anyone who's graduated from an MFA program will tell you that they're kind of all the same, and I am not ashamed to have gone to a mediocre program in a pretty cool city.) In order to obtain that MFA, I had to like write and shit. I wrote a memoir as my thesis, and while many of the people in my program seemed to like it, I am very aware of its limitations, and I know it's nowhere near the state it would have to be in for me to shop it around. There was a time, in my years at CCNY, that I thought I wanted to publish it. But years have passed, and now I am not so sure I care to do that. I think I wrote it for me.

I once watched some show or something about art students (I think it was season three of Six Feet Under), and in it a dude said that all art students think they're going to be famous. If not, what were they doing all this for? I think many people feel the same way about writing students. We all think we have what it takes to be famous writers. Except me. I never thought I'd be a famous writer. I thought maybe I'd get someone to pay me to write my nonsense about growing up in the country and moving to a place like New York. I thought, okay, maybe I would get a couple pieces published in journals, but I never expected to be Jonathan Franzen. I never expected to be much more than a teacher.

So I floated through the program expecting very little. Expecting to go to a PhD program and end up teaching literature to students who, like most of my undergrad classmates, sort of hated it and always made me wonder why they were getting an English degree to begin with--if they hated reading so much.

One thing I never bought into about being a writer is the sort of life we're supposed to have. We're supposed to get drunk and talk about Balzac and go home and write while we're still buzzed and then revise it all hungover in the morning. We're supposed to think, it seems, that what we do is the most important thing to be done. And I've never been able to even capture that kind of life effectively in writing.

I went to grad school with a ridiculously talented writer. A guy who blew my mind in every single workshop. He is (or used to be?) this kind of writer. He had this life. He wrote it convincingly here. He and I bonded in a way. I never really found myself attached to anyone in my part of the program, none of the fiction writers. I grabbed a few poets for keeping, but I never did find any of the fiction writers to be the kind of folks I could attach myself to long term. But this guy is special. He's someone you simultaneously hate (for his talent) and think is cool (for that lifestyle you can't seem to live). And he always seemed to like my work, which was encouraging. But he's a guy who's bought into the writer's life. It works for him, and he has turned into a writer who will be, I think, the great success story of our program. He'll be the one whose name is featured on the website.

I can remember sitting in a fiction workshop with him and the professor, who seemed to like me and him in particular, making plans to go out and drink together after class. I can remember thinking, "who has that life?" right as I was watching that life unfold before me. In watching all of this, it became clear to me, writing is a life of luxury for most people. Working class people of today (in general) do not write great novels. They have multiple jobs and bills and all of those things that destroy the life of the mind. They have children and husbands and sick mothers. They have all the things that keep their creative impulses locked inside panic attacks about bills that have turned red and sick pets and how to pay for their mother's funeral.

That's not to say great books haven't been written by working class people and about working class lives, but the way our system is set up today means those who live a working class life get home from work and lack the energy required to be creative. Even if we drink, we use our drinking energy to sit in front of the TV and prepare ourselves for yet another day of making money for someone else. This a not a life one chooses, but one is forced to live, and it would be useless to pity those who have it. Where changes can be made to free people who have this life is not for me to decide. It's for people with power to change, and unfortunately, those people tend to lack empathy.

This is not all some sort of excuse for not writing. This is not some kind of explanation for why I am not as good as others. It's just a way of saying, I have spent the last two years learning how frivolous the act can be. I have spent two years learning that for those in certain situations, a book is not enough--no matter how great that book.

When I was in the booby hatch in February and March, I read eleven books. At least eight of them were masterpieces. At least eight of them changed the way I viewed the world in some small but important way. When I got out, I kept reading. I try to read everyday. I do not make it a rule to write everyday. I do not write everyday because I cannot write to save a life. I am not that writer.

What I ultimately discovered is that, while these eight books have changed me, they did not save me. In fact, I am still not saved. It's a daily process, this salvation. I'm getting it day by day from an individual person who is helping me put some things back together. She doesn't know me in the way this other writer knew me. She doesn't know about the short stories I've written. She's not a part of my life in the way others might expect, but I believe she can fix the things that are broken. I no longer believe Joan Didion can do that.

This may be my long-winded way of saying that I am fed up with the arrogance of writers and artists. I no longer believe we are more important than others. I no longer believe what we do matters more than others. I believe we make life better. But others... they make life possible. And that has to be where it starts.

Things That Don't Suck

2010-10-07T11:37:00.005-04:00

Okay, I can't rightly say whether or not this will actually suck, but I can say that my anticipation of it does not suck. I miss getting excited about movies. Usually you are so saturated with information that you can't manage to actually wonder about a film. That's why I have insisted on a media blackout on this title. I can also say that this is opening at the New York Film Festival, and I am not sure I can wait until December to see it, so I might just have to go. Though, to be honest, I don't really like seeing movies at the festival. It's way different, and it doesn't feel like you're "going to the movies," and I want to feel that way, so I have to make a decision, I guess, but I am certain I'll be mad at myself for either choice, so maybe I should just wait to see if one of my nerdy friends wants to see it, and then they can make the decision for me, and I can be mad at them instead of myself, and this is the most awesome run-on in the history of history. You love it.

But really, let's get down to business. HELEN MIRREN IS IN THIS MOVIE! And that means I would see it if it were a documentary on how belly button lint gets in there. (Really, it's a strange phenomenon, don't you think?) Helen Mirren has to be like the most sexiest person on the planet, no? Don't disagree with me, or I will punch you in the vagina. What? You're a boy? Well, then I will force you to get a sex change and then punch you in the vagina. (Girls are better. We rule.)

Okay, okay, even if Helen Mirren were not attached to this project, I would still have a girl boner for it. (Aside: I learned how to spell boner at work. We had to edit it into a book we made.) This is Julie Taymor. Yes, okay, she's made mistakes. But I have never encountered a director (except Guy Maddin, but he's infuriating) who has the visual sense that she has. That fucking crash in Frida was THE SHIT* with all the gold dust and shit. Fucking beauteous--to get all surfer-y about it.

Not only is this a Julie Taymor project. It's a Julie Taymor/Shakespeare project. Now, I know, dear readers, that you're all, "But Missy, you don't really like Shakespeare." And you'd be mostly right. I mean, I would rather shove a railroad spike through my forehead (thank you for that Darlene Conner) than ever encounter anything Romeo and Juliet related (except Olivia Hussey... because what's a girl to do on December 25th if she can't watch Black Christmas?). However, there are exceptions to every rule, and it turns out this is one of them. Actually, JT has been good at finding my exceptions because, while I am a former English major generally bored to tears by Shakespeare (not because he isn't good, but because I have read him too much), I fucking love The Tempest so hard. In fact, the only play of his I love harder is Titus Andronicus, and yeah, she's already covered that. And that was THE SHIT too.

How fucking righteous is Julie Taymor.... really.

Okay, back to the topic at hand. The Tempest is the shit. Why? Well, it's violent and fantastical and totally crowded with really awesome commentary. And I can see why Taymor would be attracted to a project like this with her visual sense.

GIRL BONER SALUTE!

I cannot fucking wait for this.

*Apparently I am so excited that I have to use the word shit several times to describe things. I'm soooo verbose.

UPDATE: I saw this movie, and it did suck.

More Secrets Meant for Email

2010-09-24T11:07:00.005-04:00

The above picture is simply for laughs. I found it on Facebook. Yes, I am on Facebook. Ew.

To begin, a story. As many of you fantastic readers know, I write film reviews. I love doing this. It's the most fun a nerdy girl can have as a writer. It's just a joy to get to do things like talk about fire-farting cockroaches. I mean, really, who gets to do that on a regular basis? I do, that's who. So in an effort to remain very in-the-know and hip and cool and everything awesome, I went to a screening with the totally radtastic dude from The Vault of Horror Wednesday night.

The screening was for the remake of I Spit On Your Grave (yes, it bothers me that they capitalize the "O" in "on"). And well, I think you may know that I recently reviewed the original film. I found it to be, as Ebert said, "a vile piece of garbage." I found it to be a needlessly misogynistic exercise in woman-abuse. I mean, the rape scene is twenty-six minutes long. 'Nuff said, right?

The remake was... in one way tamer, but in all other ways it was much more violent. By the time the film ended, I felt like I'd done a tour in 'Nam. I'll update this post with the link to my review once I've written it. You'll be able to see what I mean. It was ultimately a vaguely traumatic experience. Why? Well, because of the variants of "really bad thing" that have occurred over the years.

You see, as much as I want to see these films to satisfy a personal revenge fantasy that I am only beginning to admit I have, they give me what Therapist today referred to as a PTSD response. Translation: since the viewing I have had nightmares and flashbacks. But as I have mostly processed original "really bad thing," it was not featured in these intrusive memories and such. These were other events that have always taken a backseat to "really bad thing" because in terms of my traumas, it wins the top prize.

I had been, until now, dealing with these events pretty well. I was only rarely having nightmares, and I have been having less of that whole street panic thing wherein I am ten thousand percent sure that the totally innocuous man on the street is going to victimize me.

(Aside: Thanks so much for fucking me up again, Meir Zarchi.)

AnyCharlesNelsonReilly, I had a bit of a freakout last night. I was watching Lemora: A Child's Tale of the Supernatural and taking notes, and I slowly began to think of these events. And then they took over. By the time Lila Lee bit the Reverend on the neck, I was curled into a ball sobbing. Classy, no? It's as I have said before. Once these people get into my head, they do the driving, and I have no control.

As I have been instructed, I called Therapist. She promptly made sure I wasn't going to eat a bunch of pills, and then she gave me a plan for feeling safe again, for feeling less afraid, or as she calls it "self-soothing"--yes, I am bothered by the terminology. (Why is it that the mental health industry always has to sap our power with these words?)

As I had an appointment with Therapist this morning, I was aware that this would come up. Of course it would. Anything to make me fidget in my seat, right? She asked me about it, and well, as I (again) have said before, my words were attached to the interior of my mouth as if kept in place by an industrial adhesive. I thought, "Well, there was this one time...." But when the words came out, it was more like, "Well, I--"

Yeah, so productive.

Remembering that final piece of "really bad thing" that I was having trouble telling Therapist, she suggested that I do the same for these events. As such, I have just sent another email--an email that only has slightly less power over me than the last one. And it went pretty much like this.

And now the waiting begins. When you send something like this into the ether, there is no way to avoid the anticipation of a response. It's something that must be responded to. It's too much revealed and too little comfort to just hang in the air like this (or in cyberspace, as the case may be). So I sit and wait.

Ah, at least there were speed lines attached to the email. Le sigh.

UPDATE: You can now read my review of the remake by clicking here. Click it!

Oh, The Joys of Temp/Freelance Employment

2010-09-16T16:38:00.004-04:00

You know, I appreciate getting messages wherein I am told how awesome I am. I mean, really, don't we all? I love knowing that my alienated labor helps the capitalist world go 'round. In fact, I think we should all receive word of our utter importance much more frequently.

However...

When I received the above email, I honestly thought my brain was imploding. Oh yes, they are giving me "a hand." How kind is that? I so sincerely appreciate it. (Note the tone of sarcasm.)

Is it just me, or does this seem like the kind of email that one would receive before they get accolades of some kind? Doesn't it seem that this should come with prezzies?

But, oh no, this comes not even with an audio clip of hands clapping.

Poorly done, Anonymous Staffing Agency, poorly done.

Next time, Anonymous Staffing Agency, how 'bout giving me a raise?

UPDATE: I just received a Thanksgiving message from them. Again they gave me "props." Again I say "props" are not enough. Eff you, Anonymous Staffing Agency, eff you.

Oh, David Bowie, Won't You Help Me Through This Month (or Two or Ten)?

2010-09-10T12:43:00.008-04:00

This is my triumphant return to blogger, y'all. Get ready for some seriously exciting--I'm talking white-knuckle thrill ride for the ages!--kind of blogging. You will read news the likes of which you've never seen! You will thrill to the mad stylings of my witty repartee!

You will likely be disappointed by all the unkept promises of that first paragraph.

Things have been moving along paths unknown as of late. At the end of August, Best Friend moved back to Saint Louis, and I moved into a new sublet in Washington Heights. In the process of moving, I have gotten somewhat lost in terms of how I really feel about this. I've packed and unpacked countless DVDs, and I have cried a little here, got drunk a little there. And I am still not sure what to think about the absence of a dude I've gotten so used to and love so dearly.

My first instinct is to get all resentful about it. I mean, I am an angry panda after all, right? I have this habit of turning everything into rage because it's a much more comfortable emotion for me. I can imagine a world in which I still manage to accomplish day to day tasks with rage slowly burning a hole in my soul. I cannot, however, imagine a world wherein I sob through everyday tasks. As such, I refuse to be sad. (Yes, this actually works... sometimes.)

Unfortunately, no matter how hard I try to resent Best Friend (not that I've tried that hard, to be honest), I can't seem to do it. I love him, and all I can muster is a shit ton of grief over his absence. I miss the fucker. What're ya gonna do? When I talk to him, I get all down and shit, man. What gives? I'm supposed to be impervious, right? Right?

Of course, Best Friend was not the only one to go. In fact, my life has experienced a mass exodus of sorts. It seems as if everyone is leaving New York right now. Everyone but me. It's left me feeling a little... um... rejected? No, I know it's not me (at least I hope not... oh gods, is it me?), but I can't help but feel like I couldn't keep these fuckers happy. A small but vocal part of me thinks it's my job to make sure everyone is doing all right. It's a silly notion that is impossible to live up to, but there it is.

In the interim, I have been moving really slowly through the whole therapeutic process. I lose patience with it when things are going badly. I lose even more patience the instant the word hospital is uttered. The thing is this... I am trying very hard to trust Therapist. I am. And the logical part of my brainmeats says that she is actually very trustworthy.

But I have known many therapists in my days as a totally insane cuckoo bird with self-violence tendencies. Other therapists would tell me they weren't going to have me hospitalized. And then they would. Other therapists would tell me that upon my release they would still be my therapist. And they wouldn't. My point here, kiddos, is that damage has been done. And it's very difficult to repair that at this point.

As a result, Therapist and I talked about our relationship today. She mentioned that in her experience therapeutic relationships usually fall into one of three categories: parent, peer/friend, enemy. Upon thinking about it in her office, I don't think she is any of those things to me. She sure as hell is not at all parental. (Thank the gods for that, by the way.) I wouldn't consider her a peer. And for the first time in my therapeutic life, I don't consider her an enemy. So the conclusion was made that I don't really know what to make of our relationship. (Yeah, big fucking revelation that!)

She asked me if I trusted anyone, and I immediately said Indy Best Friend. She's my go-to for people I can trust. When Therapist asked what it took for me to trust her, I just said, "Ten years." When she asked if I could remember a time when I didn't trust her, I couldn't. It's as if the stalwart and steady part of Indy Best Friend has covered up any slip-ups we may have had in the ten years we've known each other. (B-t-dubbs, Indy Best Friend is THE SHIT.)

All this is to say that Therapist is trying to be creative about how to get me to trust her and to open up. (I know you all think I am an open book because I spill my secrets here, but what you read is the facts. How I feel about those facts is another matter entirely.) In an effort to do this, I am to start writing shit down that I think would be relevant. Since leaving her office this morning, it has become clear to me that I don't know how to do this. What makes one thought more relevant than the next?

Ultimately, the real trouble is that I am totally uncomfortable showing any vulnerability whatsoever. Yes, this is as problematic and hindering as it sounds. I mean, what the fuck can I possibly accomplish pulling a Wonder Woman all the time, right? And it's not as if she believes I am impervious. I've attempted suicide. The jig is up. What the fuck am I trying to hide?

AnyEstelleGetty, I am going to give this whole writing thing a whirl. I'm not really sure how it will turn out, but you, dear readers, will be the first to know.

I mean, do I write down every time I walk down the street and have streetpanic (I just made that word up)? I'll be walking down the street, and I'll see a dude. He doesn't even need to look shady. And I immediately feel the panic that sets in when you know something really and truly terrible is about to happen. You know, like when you are about to get into a car accident and see the car coming at you. Like that. And I'll see this dude, and I will start to think about all the truly evil things he could do to me, and then I just freeze right there on the sidewalk. I get so scared that I can't move. This has been happening more and more since I moved. There are new man-faces to get to know, and I am sure once I do the panic will settle, and I will feel less overwhelmed by every male figure walking by me on the street.

In addition to streetpanic, I also feel general in-my-apartment-panic. You see, when you sublet a room in someone's apartment, you don't often feel like you are really at home. And so when I go home at night, I feel freaked out by how homeless I feel. And I start to think about how undistracted I will be, and I think about the bad things I could do (and in my dysfunctional mind probably will do), and I start to freak out. I will text anyone and everyone to try to make plans because staying home seems dangerous--even though it's the only thing I want to do.

Hmmm.... Mayhaps this is exactly what Therapist is looking for. Mayhaps I am totally cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. In any case, I imagine these are the things I will be writing down throughout this little experiment. Having therapy homework is strange, I must say.

In any case, this experiment in boring you with useless information about my life has now concluded. You can return to your regular programming.

Something to Tide You Over

2010-08-14T23:27:00.001-04:00

A Break

2010-07-13T11:39:00.002-04:00

I may not be providing detailed updates as usual for a while. I have some things going on that need to be cleared up in my real, non-internerd life.

Sorry for this.

On the Silence in That Room

2010-07-09T14:26:00.005-04:00

On some days, sitting across from Therapist becomes an exercise in forcing myself to say things that I would normally never utter aloud. I'm not sure I can explain this more fully than to say that when normal people would have speed lines attached to their words as they fly out of their mouths, my words have viscera that tie them to the inside of my mouth and brain. These viscera prevent the words from ever leaving my mouth. And thus, I am rendered silent in Therapist's office.

(I do realize that silence is not what I am known for, so you'll just have to take my word for it.)

Sometimes I feel bad for Therapist. She must struggle with me and how best to goad me into speaking. She must find me very frustrating. It seems she thinks I am intentionally withholding, but this is not the case. Oftentimes, I find myself seated there with so many thoughts, I couldn't pick a single one out if I tried. (And try, I do.) It's as if every single thought I've ever had is suddenly screaming a chorus in my brain, and locating one thought and sending it out into the world becomes as impossible as shoving a fire-farting cockroach through the eye of a needle. (Even if it's a leather needle, you know that shit is hard.)

I struggle for how to say something in a way that will not make me seem weak. To many of you, I am sure this is ridiculous. If you can't appear weak in front of your clinician, well, in front of whom can you appear weak? The answer, dear readers, is no one. I want to never appear weak--not in front of anyone. And so the struggle to communicate with Therapist is particularly difficult--like reading Roland Barthes while taking a constipated shit.

Occasionally, I sit across from her, and we'll touch on something, and then I am beset upon by memories that make me want to grab a chair, shatter the window, and leap out after it. Today was such a day. Let me be clear.

I do not like to be touched. No, correction: I cannot stand to be touched. Yes, this seems more accurate. Being touched makes me aware of my body. It makes me aware that others are aware of my body. It references all that "good touch/bad touch" business, and it generally knocks me down a rabbit hole of vaguely dangerous ruminations.

So today Therapist and I are talking about touch. And instead of being able to hold onto the conversation as it flowed back and forth between us, I immediately thought of three individuals who have had the very exciting (read: boring and not at all interesting) opportunity to touch me in a very personal way. From the moment this happens, I shut down almost completely. They are in my head, and they have taken possession of the wheel. They get to decide what I think from that moment on. And I can't speak. I suppose I must have moved in a way that made it clear something in me had changed because Therapist asked what had happened. To which I did not reply. I put my face in my hands, and I worked my hardest to avoid crying. I'm a world champion avoider of tears. Oh, if I am in a public place, my brain works like you would not believe to convince me that crying is not acceptable, and I have to man up. And man up, I did.

Then came ten minutes of silence.

And I, sitting across from Therapist slowly shutting down the cycle of thoughts and memories, found myself hoping for those speed lines. But the speed lines did not come. Instead I gave her vague information about what happened with each of these people, and I did not even come close to saying how I feel about them and the ways they've touched my body. This after providing nothing but crickets for those ten minutes. How very boring she must find me. How very irritating she must find my constant recital of the phrase, "I don't know."

But when I say "I don't know," I actually mean it. For the moments I am sitting there in Therapist's office, I don't have an answer for these questions she asks. Whether the reason be that I am not allowing myself access to the answer or the answer is too complicated for me to understand, I am not sure. Perhaps it is a combination of the two. Yes, this seems likely.

In all truth and semi-seriousness, my brain is a place of mystery to me. I cannot say exactly why being touched makes me afraid. I cannot say why I can access tears once a week alone in my bedroom, but I cannot access them in front of the person who can supposedly help me.

On second thought, maybe I am as frustrating for me as I am for her.

Sitting before her today, I had a strong desire to slow down my brain, to make it understandable to me. But no matter how hard I tried, it still became overcrowded with information, none of which I could discern as more significant than the rest. I think this is my ultimate battle--understanding how to figure out all the information inside my head.

Is it what happened that is really important? No. It's what that makes me think and feel, and it seems this is not what I have access to. I have access only to images of events that render me speechless and terrified. And then I have Therapist across from me telling me, "You don't have to keep these thoughts inside you. You can let them out." Well, Therapist, as much as I appreciate the sentiment, no, I can't.

Sometimes I think I want to email her and tell her that I'm sorry, that I know I must be a real pain. But I don't. I just hope that something in her intuits that I am not intentionally being a problem client. I hope that she gets why I go silent. I hope that she can figure it out faster than I can. Because what I've figured out so far doesn't bring me any closer to those coveted speed lines.

And so I'll just sit here silent trying to figure it out.

Today Is . . .

2010-07-08T15:59:00.000-04:00

Sometimes things just hit really hard.

Today I Am

2010-07-06T22:23:00.002-04:00

Something About Mary Gaitskill and My Father

2010-07-02T10:23:00.004-04:00

News item number one is that the Prolonged Exposure is officially finished. I am now "recovered"-ish from "really bad thing." Well, I suppose that's not entirely accurate. I have stopped having super powerful nightmares and flashbacks, so let's all take a moment to celebrate that awesomeness.

Done? Okay. Good.

So I'm reading this novel. Two Girls, Fat and Thin by Mary Gaitskill. This is not my first Gaitskill. She's been a part of my consciousness for many years, and I have read both Because They Wanted To and Bad Behavior (no, I have not yet read Veronica). The novel tells the story of two women who come into each other's lives and how those lives change dramatically in ways neither expected. (That's a paraphrased version of the back cover blurb.)

I haven't yet finished the novel, so I can't say too much, but I will say that it's very characteristic of Gaitskill, who is, to my mind, the most aggressive writer I've read. I wouldn't say other writers don't go there, but Gaitskill takes a tone that is at once frank and almost scientific. For me it often takes a second read (which I will gladly give) to get the emotional weight of some of her sentences. This novel will reward repeat reading. Passages in it are so dense with intention that it's hard to imagine anyone would be able to gain the full meaning of her novel without multiple reads.

Mary Gaitskill writes like I wish I would.

Having said all that, Two Girls, Fat and Thin is a trauma narrative. Again, this is very characteristic of Gaitskill. In crafting a tale in which two women experience childhood trauma she manages to put something on the page that I've yet to find so clearly played out on the page. As one of the women's abuse came at the hands of her father, Gaitskill allows the emotions surrounding Dorothy Never's experience to be extremely complicated. She allows her father to not only be evil, but to also be human. He's a man with flaws, and no matter what he does to Dorothy, he still loves her. And young Dorothy is beset upon by painful and conflicting emotions.

Justine Shade, instead, was first abused by a friend of her father's. And later she engages in abuse against others--as well as allowing (don't read too much into that word) herself to be in situations in which she herself will be brutalized again. She finds a confusing and terrifying pleasure mixed in with all this victimization, and so she seeks it out again and again.

It would be foolish of me to simply say that I am finding myself connecting with this novel in confusing and complicated ways. But I've said it nonetheless. It's often that I love a novel, but it is not often that I feel I am inside its pages. This is such a novel.

There are pieces of me in each woman. As I turn the pages, I find more and more moments familiar. I find myself going back in time in my mind. I'm thinking about the things that made me like both of these women. I am thinking about my father and others in my past, and I am thinking about how painful and confusing it is to love someone who's hurt you.

It's difficult for me to post this bit about my father. I'm never sure if he's found this site, and I do not have the goal of hurting him or shaming him in any way. He is who he is. And he's done what he's done. And he loves me as much as I love him, but it's my responsibility to figure out what all that means in my adult life.

(For the record, my father never did what Dorothy's father did to her.)

I sat across from Therapist this morning, and I told her a story about matches in the backyard. I told her that this was the only time I ever ran from my father. I told her that my family now talks about this as if it's a joke--this story that lives in my head as one my greatest moments of fear. They laugh about it now. Every time they laugh about this, I feel so many complicated things. I am drawn to laugh too, lest I be separated from the crowd. I also feel like crying. I feel like asking, "What makes this story funny to you?" I feel like yelling, "He beat me really badly!" I don't do any of those things. I just sit there quietly--something I am sure none of you can imagine.

The most complicated thing of all is not how my family has processed these events, how they've forgotten some and lauded others. It's how I reconcile this version of my father with that other version. How do I understand the man who I know feels more connected to me than to my other sisters? How do I understand a man who built snow forts with me when he is the same man who put a knife up to my throat (something my mother still doesn't believe actually happened--or doesn't want to believe)? In short, I don't know how to love only parts of someone. I don't know how to love and hate at the same time.

I think this might be my task for a while--to navigate these complicated waters. Perhaps one day I will only love him. That's what I'm hoping for.

I'm Going to Roundhouse Kick a Kitten in the Face. For Reals, Y'all

2010-06-30T16:30:00.004-04:00

Today my day started out all lovely. I've been feeling better and shit. And then . . . I don't know, man. Things took a turn.

No, I didn't have some tragedy. But my boss wanted me to update this chart, and dude, when he gets all "can you update this chart?" it's like some demon has taken possession of his soul, and my sanity is the only thing standing between The Demon and his carrying my boss's soul down into Hell.

So he hands me the chart. And he doesn't like the lines, so I have to re-paste the whole thing into a new Excel worksheet. Fine, whatever. But it takes me a good thirty minutes to reformat the fucker. And then he asks me to print out five copies to the color printer. This printer is like allllllllll the way at the end of the hall, so having to do this multiple times -- which I did -- (while not damaging to my health) is really fucking annoying.

But I do it.

And then there are like 84,356,972 more changes. So I make them all. And I am all happy because I think this experiment in the wrong side of my brain is over. And I go to lunch. And I eat some fucking salad that wasn't really what I wanted, but I had a piece due, so I couldn't wait for the fucking sandwich line, and I got this stupid, tasteless salad, and I went back to my desk, and I wrote an article in 20 minutes, and I am pretty sure it still hasn't gone live, so what the fuck was the point of rushing anyway?

And then I go to the bathroom.

When I return, the fucking chart is in my chair with even more marks on it. He went to a meeting with it, and then the meeting produced all these changes. And I was so rageful that I thought I was actually going to scratch all the skin off my face.

I just returned it. So help me Lords of Kobol, if this fucking thing shows up at my desk again, I am calling a fucking exorcist and getting the fuck away from Bossman.

Stuart Gordon in the Evening and Herschell Gordon Lewis in the Morning

2010-06-29T14:30:00.003-04:00

Okay, all right. I didn't watch a Stuart Gordon movie last night, but I did reference Re-Animator at work to a friend, so I think it should count. I have seen that movie like twenty times. It counts. Don't judge me just because I watched Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban last when I got home from group.

If you read that tiny portion of text buried in shame and embarrassment, you'll notice I had group last night. I missed last week due to general laziness and exhaustion from wedding hijinx, so I thought I'd been lucky enough to miss "Love and Happiness," but no! Fear not! I now know all about these emotions. Woohoo!

Right, you have no idea what I am talking about. In group, we are doing "Emotion Regulation," and it's about as fun as a cerebral hemorrhage. No, really, sometimes I think my brain is bleeding.

AnyCharlesCiphers, in doing so, we discuss common emotions individually, learning the events that might prompt those emotions, how we interpret those events, and blah blah blah. Look it up, asshats. I'm not a therapist. I am but a humble documentarian of experience. (As if I have some sort of journalistic integrity as I intersperse DBT with Prolonged Exposure and a little bit of space peanuts and seventies sci-fi -- For serious, have you seen Zardoz? Because I am pretty sure your life is incomplete without it. No, it begins with this line: "The penis is evil!" You know, I've always thought that, but now I know for sure. A Sean Connery movie says, and it must be so.)

So last night was "Love and Happiness," and I don't know, man. I just . . . man, it was . . . er, duh . . . . I didn't much like it. I guess I got through "Happiness" all right. It was when we got to "Love" that I thought it all got rather cheesy and gross. Therapist asked us the last time we felt love. No, really, she asked that. Can you imagine having to answer that question without just replying with a vomit sound? Yeah, it was hard. I talked about my dog for two minutes and was relieved when everyone else talked about a pet too. Aw, none of us are loved. Boo.

Group is a difficult thing for me. As I've said before, I usually feel like the giant gaping asshole at the center of the group universe. And with the weather becoming more and more awful every day (Yes, I hate summer and fuck you for loving it. Your love makes it come.) I just feel ten thousand times worse than I do on a day when I can wear a sweater and wool coat.

Translation: I get up in the morning, and I take a lukewarm shower. I do this because the notion of sweating in the shower is horrifying. Of course, I still do it, but it's an unpleasant feeling, and I like knowing that I am doing all I can to prevent it. Once I've completed the task of cleaning the world's most disgusting body, I go back to my room wrapped in two towels. I immediately put gel in my hair and then this weird spray that has a name I can't remember, and I scrunch (Or is it sprunch? I don't know hair shit.) my hair trying to achieve the maximum amount of cool curl. Then I get dressed. I usually spend ten minutes in one outfit and switch to another. Yes, I am that girl, but probably not for the reasons you'd expect. And then I finally look in the mirror. Summer brings short sleeves, so when I look in the mirror all I see are arm flaws. I am standing in front of a full-length mirror partially covered by my laundry, which is really just a bucket of clothes I never wear that I let stay in the hamper because I don't have the closet or drawer space for them, and I see freckles that look splotchy. I see stretchmarks. I see everything I hate about them. And yes, I know there are other bloggers who write about stretchmarks and boob hairs in a way that makes you giggle and shows that in spite of its flaws, they really love their bodies. Well, bitches, I am not that blogger. And I ain't never going to be. Then I sit at my desk. It's here that I have to put on make-up. The thing is, I wouldn't even wear make-up if I felt comfortable with my face. I hate looking at it, so I assume everyone else must as well, and I cover it up--focusing on specific flaws and giving them special attention.

This process makes me feel like dookie.

And so I spend all day thinking about how not okay it is to look like me. Yes, I realize that this sounds pathetic, and it completely is (though not as pathetic as how I think about President Roslin on Battlestar Galactica more than teenage boys think about sex), but I do it, and honesty (thinly veiled in vagueness) is my policy. So there it is.

AnyThelmaHarper, in group I tend to have these feelings amplified. For instance, last night, we introduced a new member. She has a first name that simultaneously reminds me of a New Pornographers song, The Human Centipede, and several bitches I knew in high school who were afraid of me and thought I would kick their asses. I never did kick anyone's ass--well, except that one girl--so I am always surprised by this admission. (Eh, it all makes me want to listen to Yo La Tengo's I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass.)

So the new group member is pretty. Yeah, and she's not like kind of pretty or passable. She looks like she could show up in Asian porn. I don't mean that in a disparaging way, but she had really large juggs, perfect skin, beautiful bone-straight black hair, and well, a host of other qualities Asian fetishists love. And she was skinny, of course. (And yes, skinny is the straw for me, y'all.) I know nothing about this girl, but I immediately imagined her very charmed life. She has a sister she's close to, and she just got a new puppy. (These are the actual facts.) In my mind, people love her, and they tell her she is beautiful. She is not necessarily ridiculously smart, but she believes she is smart. She has never questioned her intelligence, and she knows that everyone in her life is trustworthy and responsive to her needs. Yeah, she's got it good.

Yes, I realize that my projecting all of this onto her is all about me and not at all about her. For all I know she was verbally abused by a particularly language-skilled panda bear yesterday. She may have walked out of her apartment and four children (or maybe even little people) dressed in elf costumes threw dog poo at her feet. Her day could have been so much worse than mine. But what I have to compare her to is me, and when I look at that body, and then I look at mine, I can no longer think of elfen dog poo slingage and panda rage. It's all about what she has that I don't. (Yes, in DBT one might call this envy.)

So I was feeling all unsettled and unattractive in group yesterday. I mean, I suppose I always feel unsettled and (definitely) unattractive in group, but yesterday I was predisposed to find everything Therapist said to be bullshit. So the moral of this very long and likely boring (set this post on fire!) story is that the notion of having to ask yourself the last time you felt love and the last time you felt happiness is absurd to me. I can't get down with it.

Of course, we moved on to "Shame" and "Guilt," and as I am an ugly former Catholic, I've got that shit down pat.

Oh, and group ran late, so I got home later than usual, and I was sweaty and bitchy and the angry, hungry cat was being noisy, and I fed him, and then there was Coco Chanel to contend with, and then I watched Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban Re-Animator, and I went to bed.

Wait, wait now. There's more to this story.

So my alarm went off at 5:00 am to wake me up at 6:00 am. I know to many this seems insane, but I need a fucking industrial vehicle to haul me out of bed in the morning. Since no one from Fabick-Caterpillar is coming to my apartment to do that, I have to set my alarm an hour early, so I can hit the snooze for four hundred years until I stumble out of bed and fall into the shower. (As a side note, my aunt used to work at Fabick.) Once I do finally get out of bed, the pattern I described above ensues.

For the record, today I chose to wear my Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill! tee shirt. And that pretty much makes me awesome.

I woke up at this cruel hour that, as far as I can tell, shouldn't even exist, and I went to see Therapist.

More backstory: I proposed this idea to Therapist. I am having trouble manning up in session. I'll just sit there all silent and shit, which is shocking considering how many words I have in my head and exactly how many spill out as soon as some asshole starts talking to me, but there it is. So in an effort to get Degrassi about shit, we are beginning to plan the topics for the sessions. This means that I go in knowing what we're going to talk about, and I supposedly will actually say shit that relates to that topic. Backstory over.

So we hadn't managed to plan a topic for this session, so I went in all willy nilly like a four-year-old on her first bike ride, and I started talking about Herschell Gordon Lewis. Yeah, I know. I'm totally rad. I mean, who else do you know who spends her evenings watching the images posted above. For those of you who don't know, Lewis is, arguably, the first dude to ever put something gory on film. For this reason, I love him. And for Two Thousand Maniacs. He would go to the butcher shop and pick up a bunch of chicken parts or something and then chop them up as if they were people. (As another side note, my grandmommy was a "butcheress.")

It's awesome.

But even I felt the pressure to not talk about Herschell Gordon Lewis all day, so I ended up talking about other things, but of course, I waited until the last ten minutes.

I started talking about Middle Sister. I love Middle Sister very much, but some days I get very angry at her. With everything that has happened in my life over the past year, I would have expected her to express concern or interest in the goings-on of my life. But she hasn't. As disappointing as this is, I also find it somewhat comforting. I am not eager to share these events with family members.

AnyAdrienneBarbeau, Middle Sister recently gave sweet, screaming life-birth to a son. Yippee! I would desperately like to meet the kid, but 1) I have no money for a flight and 2) I have a serious aversion to returning to Saint Louis before I have worked some shit out. I tried to explain these reasons to Middle Sister, but she called me selfish and got mad, and now we are essentially not talking.

Yeah. Righteous.

With Therapist today, I called Middle Sister something bad, and I didn't mean it--not really. I called her a selfish cunt. I am mad at her, you see, and I said something I shouldn't have. I apologize into the ether for that blunder. I love Middle Sister, and I care too much about her to let my own shit slide.

(This reminds me that I want to email Therapist with a topic for Friday. I will probably apologize for having called Middle Sister that as well.)

AnySusanStrasberg, when I said that, I also happened to mention, "Well, that's something my father used to call me." And when I did, Therapist got all visibly distressed.
"Your father used to call you that?" She was all, WITNESS MY SHOCKED FACE!
"Yeah."
"That's mean."
"He's not a very nice man." And then I just brushed it off.

And then we continued to talk about Middle Sister because, well, I didn't want to talk about how my dad called me a cunt, and she said something about me being different from her.
"You're not obese," she says. (Trust me when I say that there was a reason for this.)
"Oh, whatever, Therapist," I say.
"Do you know what obese means?"
"Yes. Okay, sure."
"Missy, you are not obese."
"Okay, Therapist."

And that's pretty much where today ended. I mean, there was all this content about why I am expected to be the one to apologize to Middle Sister, and how it doesn't seem fair that I have to "be the bigger person" and all that shit. And Therapist essentially said, I should because I can, which makes sense, I suppose, in that "Of course, trucks can imperceptibly blow up when a fire-farting cockroach in on the wheel" way. So I am thinking I will probably apologize to Middle Sister with an explanation that while I am sorry she's disappointed in me, I cannot come back to The Lou just now.

Because being obese means I get to be the bigger person.

Something About Books and Writing

2010-06-27T18:03:00.005-04:00

Oftentimes I'll be reading a book, and I'll get fifty pages in, and I still won't know if I want to continue reading. I'll have not caught the flow of the book. I'll have not found my way into the text. This happens every single time I pick up a book. But sometimes there's a moment in which I suddenly realize that this book, this one I'm reading, is the best book I've ever read. Of course, not every book is the best book I've ever read, but for the few days I'm reading it, I am sure that's the case.

I read a lot of books. I suppose that could go without saying. But from graphic novels to short story anthologies to literary and queer theory, I read a lot of books. But I go through phases in which I cannot connect to a book. I cannot connect to any book. It doesn't matter if it's Last Exit to Brooklyn. If I pick it up in one of these phases, I just can't read it.

When I was in the last hospital, I read something like ten books (that's probably an exaggeration, but not by much). Since I was released, I have had a lot of trouble concentrating. I'll pick up a book, and as hard as I try to love it, to connect with it, just to get through its pages, I can't. I have even tried to reread texts I've read before, picking up the Vintage Book of Contemporary American Short Stories or Trash by Dorothy Allison. But then I found a short story. I picked up The Literary Review, and I found a story in it. "Rooey" is a story about a girl whose brother has been killed in a shark attack. You wouldn't think this would work, but it does. I stood in the Barnes & Noble at 82nd and Broadway reading this story while waiting for Best Friend to meet me. "Rooey" is a perfect short story. It's unique and bizarre but very, very familiar. And it helped me get my mind back.

Since reading the entire issue of The Literary Review, I have since picked up Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick's Epistemology of the Closet. It's a seminal text on queer theory and literature. In the text, Sedgwick refers to this as gay theory, as the book was published before Judith Butler's Gender Trouble. The text is revolutionary and takes for granted much of the ideas it caused gender studies academics to hold dearly. It's been responsible for all the thinking that made me have many of the ideas I have had--about books, about art, and most importantly, about people.

Sometimes when I read these types of books, I feel a little bit like I've been studying in vain. I feel like there is no way I will contribute to the world in the way my naive undergraduate self assumed I would. Whoever raised Americans to believe they could be whatever they wanted was arrogant and stupid--not to put too fine a point on it.

But even though reading this shatters my confidence, I find that it also makes me want to write even more. It makes me wonder if someone has yet written about the female sexuality on Battlestar Galactica. Is that something I could do? What about the damage a rush of rape revenge films in the seventies did to American popular culture? And I start to feel like, "Hey, maybe I have something to offer."

I do write. I write constantly. I have been working like mad, giving it away for free, and I have been loving it. I have moments in which I wonder how useful my writing is. Yes, I love The Manitou, but does it matter if I convince anyone else to watch it too? I might be giving them a certain amount of pleasure for the night, but pleasure is not what I wanted my career to provide. But then there are days when I send a Lacanian reading of Dead Ringers to one of my editors, and he writes back that he's "impressed as hell." Those are good days.

So maybe it's more complicated than I'm making it. Maybe for every Manitou or Bug or Night of the Lepus, I unleash onto the world, there is a feminist reading The Blood Spattered Bride. Maybe I'm letting the light days matter more than the heavy ones. In any case, I am going to keep plugging along. Who knows? Maybe one day someone will think the same thing about my writings on rural cultural representations of trauma.

Eh, probably not.

Things That Don't Suck

2010-06-24T14:47:00.002-04:00

Coming back into your office after lunch and having someone immediately offer you a brownie.

This Is the Post Wherein I Reveal My Plans of World Domination*

2010-06-22T17:36:00.004-04:00

I have been a bad blogger of late. I would say I'm sorry, but I have been doing happy things, and those happy things are not things I am sorry about, so I will just say, "Suck it, readers. Suck it."

This weekend was the culmination of weeks (no... months?) of stress for Childhood Friend during which she married New Roomie. This is all very exciting stuff, of course, and I wish I had a clever story to tell you about the proceedings, but all I can really say is that the wedding was kind of perfect, and I cried like a little girl when they were dancing their first dance.

I did give a toast at the reception during which I limited my embarrassing stories of Childhood Friend down to the fact that we participated in singing contests in my parents' living room (embarrassing for me too, no?) and that she wanted to name her first two children Hamburger and Cheeseburger. Before you ask, no, I do not remember which was a girl and which a boy, but I have always assumed Hamburger was a boy and Cheeseburger a girl. (Apparently this is true because Childhood Friend tells me that she and New Roomie have decided on the names Henry and Camilla in honor of Hamburger and Cheeseburger. You see where I'm going with this.)

AnyMickeyRooney, the entire event was really, really lovely. And I am pretty honored to have been a part of it--however small. (Though, I think I was actually a big part of it now that I'm a-thinkin' about it.)

In addition to working my bum off (oh, how I wish that was a literal phrase) for the wedding, I have been busy using my mad skillz to write about film. Check this and this and this and this for more recent entries.

Doing all this writing and working with STL Friend to make the best of our joint column at Fused Film has been really... shall we say... invigorating. I am totally excited about some things again, and I have officially recommitted myself to academic pursuits.

That's right, y'all! I am fittin' to take the world by storm via analyses of representations of trauma in literature, film, and art! Whoo! Get excited. I will likely become a rabid infection of anxiety and ill-preparedness as the application deadlines roll around.

Wish me luck, fuckers.

*At some point I promise to write you a post that is about something and not just an update**

**I make no promises of any kind.

Things That Don't Suck

2010-06-16T14:49:00.002-04:00

I just said to someone: "Well, I'm like supposed to be a writer and shit."

Classy.

Adventures with the MTA

2010-06-15T14:53:00.006-04:00

I had an adventure of sorts on the subway this weekend. On Sunday Best Friend and I traveled downtown to pick something up for a wedding we're participating in this weekend. It was rainy, and Best Friend and I were tired. We sat down on the subway on the way back home, and relaxed. Then a man sat down beside me. His presence was immediately felt when he belched loudly and slurped a smoothie--thoroughly disgusting to both me and Best Friend.

Being well-trained in the ways of urban living, we both ignored him; though, it was probably no secret that we found his behavior revolting. As I sat beside this man, I began to look down at the subway floor. It was nothing different than the idle stare I engage in all the time. I was probably thinking about how bad my kidneys hurt or all the work I needed to get done that weekend that I hadn't even started. I wasn't expecting things to take a turn--but turn they did.

As I sat silently next to this man who smelled of sweat and unclean skin, he leaned in close to my ear and began saying things to me. In a normal situation, I would be able to dismiss his speech, but his comments went from benign yet aggressive to completely threatening. His use of the word "bitch" notwithstanding, he eventually began to full-on bully me with threat of physical and sexual violence. Being the woman I am with the history I have (see all posts tagged "really bad thing"), I became increasingly afraid. When I could no longer take his words whispered in my ear, I turned to Best Friend and told him I had to move. Best Friend did not follow.

While I stood at the other end of the car--as far from the man as I could get--I looked back at Best Friend to see where he was, and I noticed the man still staring at me from his seat near Best Friend. Of course, I stopped looking in his direction, and when a seat behind me became available, I took it and began to cry. I continued to cry for the duration of the ride, and when I was forced off to wait for another train that would make my stop, I stood on the platform and cried some more.

I would not have expected tears. I loathe crying in general, but even more so I hate crying in public. And here I found myself terrified to the point of tears on the subway in the most public of ways.

I took this experience home with me--afraid to sleep, to walk my dog. I found myself afraid to be alone--even though alone is the only thing I really wanted to be. Instead I chose to make Best Friend watch House on Haunted Hill with me. I needed to distract myself--a key skill I use naturally on a daily basis.

But even with all this effort to believe I am safe and that bad people can't get me, I am still stuck with him inside my head beside other men I've known just like him. He's taken up residence inside me. And he has roommates.

And so the days go by, and he's in there with his pals, but I try to ignore him. I try to pretend nothing happened on Sunday, and I have never been victimized. I can do this fairly well, I think. I've made it through an entire day, and it's not until I am sitting across from Therapist that it breaks down before me. We're talking about something else entirely. And she asks, "What happened on the subway?"

And of course, I just say, "Why are you asking me this right now?"

To which she responds, "Because it just happened, and it's important."

So I tell her. Mostly. She asks a couple of questions here and there, and she tells me that my need to hold onto things gives them more power. Like I've never heard that before. You see, she wants to know what he said--specifically--but I can't do it. I can't tell her. I can't let his words come out of my mouth. And she thinks she understands, but I'm not sure she can. She thinks I think she'll judge me, but I don't even think about that. Or maybe I think about that, but I don't recognize it. She's not the first therapist I've had, and I worry more about her reactions to the things I do. I worry she'll take them and turn them into a sign of danger. This is not that situation.

Instead I tell her over and over that I can't say it. I blame my former Catholicism. I tell her that I can't say things like that out loud, but she's knows that's not entirely true. She knows I've told Best Friend in Indiana. She knows I've managed to get it to come out of my mouth at some point. I try to make the excuse that it's not the words themselves that matter. Who cares if I can tell her what he said? But I know that there's this chance.... I may take those words and make them a part of me. I may take those words and find a reason to be too scared to leave my apartment.

And so I'm thinking about how to handle that, how to process it, how to blurt it out. Who knows, maybe on Tuesday she'll get to hear the nastiest thing I've ever heard too.

Something About Amy Bloom and My Father and Mother

2010-06-15T13:01:00.003-04:00

A friend of mine has been writing about books. She's got this site you can go to, and it's pretty fantastic. Click here to get to know her.

Today, in reading through some of her past posts, I came across something about Amy Bloom. Bloom is a writer I'd forgotten about. Not because her work lacks merit, but because my life has carried me away from people who write perfect short stories, people who say things we all think from time to time but are too cowardly to put down on the page. Bloom writes bravely. She writes as if she understands something the rest of us have yet to learn. When I first read her short story "Love Is Not a Pie," I was sure I would never write anything worth reading again. I had the same feeling upon reading "Silver Water." But I plugged on. And I think I've written maybe two stories since then that are really worth reading. But it's no matter. I have my whole life to try.

Bloom recently published a short story called "Between Here and Here." In it her character describes her complicated understanding of her parents. And I am going to paste some of the text (pulled from my friend's site) in here. You should read it. Bloom knows me better than I know myself.

I HAD ALWAYS planned to kill my father. When I was ten, I drew a picture of a grave with “Alvin Lowald” on the tombstone, on the wall behind my dresser. From time to time I would add a spray of weeds or a creeping vine. By the time I was in junior high, there were trees hung with kudzu, cracks in the granite, and a few dark daisies springing up. Once, when my mother wouldn’t let me ride my bike into town, I wrote “Peggy Lowald is a fat stupid cow” behind the dresser, but I went back the same day and scribbled over it with black Magic Marker because most of the time I did love my mother and I knew she loved me. The whole family knew that my mother’s feelings were Sensitive and Easily Hurt. My father said so, all the time. My father’s feelings were also sensitive, but not in a way that I understood the word, at ten; it might be more accurate to say that he was extremely responsive. My brother, Andy, drew cartoon weather maps of my father’s feelings: dark clouds of I Hate You, giving way to the sleet of Who Are You, pierced by bolts of Black Rage.

Things That Don't Suck

2010-06-14T21:43:00.002-04:00

Being able to turn out an article with a friend in under an hour. That's synchronicity, folks.

Hospital Care 1*

2010-06-13T14:50:00.007-04:00

I was on Telemetry immediately after. I don't remember how I got there. I woke up unsure of where I was. Even now I can only remember my body. I can only remember feeling like my body was betraying me. No one explained to me what was happening. No one told me that the drugs I'd taken would do things to me. I don't remember speaking to a doctor; though, I know I must have.

I tried to use the phone. I knew I'd get transferred to that other ward. I knew I needed to use the phone now or never. When I picked up to dial, I couldn't hit the right numbers. I couldn't get them right. I knew exactly what numbers to hit, but I couldn't hit them. If I were going for seven, I would hit five. I tried over and over, but I couldn't make a call. I never asked the nurses or the one-to-one what was happening. I assumed I'd permanently damaged by brain. I would never be able to dial a phone again. I'd have to wait for people to call me.

They did eventually. It seemed like forever. When I answered the phone they asked me questions I can't remember. I can only remember responding in a way that made it impossible for them to understand me. I would string together meaningless words. I would think of the sentence I wanted to say, and when I would open my mouth, something entirely different would come out. If I were trying to say, "I'm on Telemetry, but they're planning to move me tomorrow," I would instead say, "I'm a monkey bicycle." It sounds funny now that I'm reading it, but it wasn't. It was something else altogether. I would will the right words to come out of my mouth, but nothing close would come. I tried to communicate over and over again, but I couldn't, and I became even more convinced that something was permanently wrong with my brain.

These moments, they seemed like malfunctions, like the wiring had shorted out. And they extended from thought to speech to movement. When I awoke in the hospital I had to pee. I told the nurse I was getting up, and I asked her to disconnect the heart monitor. I reached up to grab the IV pole, and I set off the twenty feet to the bathroom. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't do that either. I fell immediately after rising off the bed. The nurse insisted I stay in bed, but I refused. I tried again. And again I fell. My legs had become weak. I knew I wouldn't be able to make it even to the bathroom, but I kept trying. And I kept being defeated by this body that I'd broken. When I no longer had the energy to fight it, I got back into the bed, and I let her give me a bedpan. And I used it. I'd never used a bedpan before. And it was exactly as I'd expected.

When the stress of travel to the bathroom was over, and I'd failed to communicate with anyone, I fell asleep. In that first day, I couldn't stay awake. I would awake only long enough to confuse some staff member, and then I would fall asleep for another two or three hours. This went on, and I wasn't sure whether I was just dying slowly instead of quickly and quietly like I'd intended. Everything seemed skewed. But there I was waiting to move on to the next place.

*I'm trying another thing in which I try to remember exactly what this last hospital experience was like. I'll be posting these off and on, so don't bother to read them if you're not up for maudlin. This is a personal project, but I thought putting it out here would be one way for me to address it. I'm not particularly interested in making them pretty. I'll work on them later when everything else is on the table. Peace out, y'all.

Things That Make Me Sad

2010-06-13T13:05:00.001-04:00

"I am a visitor here. I am not permanent."

Currently listening to:
The Postal Service -- Give Up

The District Sleeps Alone Tonight

Smeared black ink... your palms are sweaty
And I'm barely listening to last demands
I'm staring at the asphalt wondering what's buried underneath
Where I am
Where I am

I'll wear my badge... a vinyl sticker with big block letters adherent to my chest
That tells your new friends I am a visitor here...
I am not permanent
And the only thing keeping me dry is
Where I am
Where I am
Where I am

You seem so out of context in this gaudy apartment complex
A stranger with your door key explaining that I am just visiting
And I am finally seeing
Why I was the one worth leaving
Why I was the one worth leaving

D.C. sleeps alone tonight

Where I am
Where I am
Where I am

You seem so so out of context in this gaudy apartment complex
A stranger with your door key explaining that I am just visiting
And I am finally seeing
Why I was the one worth leaving
Why I was the one worth leaving

Where I am
Where I am
Where I am

The district sleeps alone tonight after the bars turn out their lights
And send the autos swerving into the loneliest evening
And I am finally seeing
Why I was the one worth leaving
Why I was the one worth leaving
Why I was the one worth leaving
Why I was the one worth leaving

Things That Don't Suck

2010-06-13T13:01:00.002-04:00

When I was a little girl, I lived an hour away from my grandparents. In an effort to remain close to me, my grandma drew pictures and mailed them to me with instructions. I was to color in the pictures and mail them back.

The pictures she sent were not just images. They were full story books. She often sent more than three a month. She would write these children's book with no intention of ever publishing them. They were just for me.

I wish I still had some of them.

This Is Only a Test

2010-06-13T12:11:00.001-04:00

I'm trying out some new things on ye olde blog, so you might notice some random posts without too much content. Sorry about that. For now, check out the below link. Iz good.

Florence & The Machine - Between Two Lungs gr8fl

If You're Reading This, You Should Know It's Unpleasant (Another Post to Set on Fire)

2010-06-13T02:05:00.000-04:00

It's almost 2am as I start this post. My "T" key isn't working properly, and I am growing angry about its constant abuses of my language. I've been typing for hours. I've been trying to get these words right--words about Lacan and David Cronenberg, words about werewolves inside women. And this fucking "T" key picks, picks, picks at me until I get too angry to continue.

My writing has been punctuated with reading. I'm going back in time on this blog. I'm reading what I said two months ago. I'm reading about the process I've been working through. I keep having moments in my day in which I am sure I am not getting better. I send text messages to Therapist telling her that I am not going to make it, that I am sure this is pointless, that I am not safe, but in reading these old posts, I can see a change, a trajectory. I am not so afraid. It's been a while since I have had moments of terror, of being pulled back in time and space. And for a moment or two, I have hope--before the act of reading pulls me back in the same way.

When I was telling Therapist this story for the first time, I had to send the last bit in an email. I had to tell her what I'd let him do before he took control in an email. I couldn't say those words--those words that are still stitched inside my mouth. If I tried to tell her the story today, I am sure I couldn't. I am sure these words are still as powerful in my head as they've always been. I am sure that what I think about these events is as powerful as ever. It's just the memory that's getting easier. And I am not sure today that's enough.

She tells me often that I'm not saying everything. She's says I'm responsible; I always show up on time, never cancel. But it's not enough. I have to start saying the things I think--and even more the things I feel. I don't know how to do that. I've tried. I sit across from her on a couch, and I think sometimes these thoughts that make me feel weak, that sap my power, that take complete control. I am afraid to talk out loud. I don't want to hear these things come out of my mouth. Saying things out loud makes them even more real. And I want to keep them in this pretend place in the back of my mind, this place I can exercise control over.

I tell her facts sometimes. I tell her about the boys in the hotel room and what I remember. A blue bra, green panties, and my hands reaching to grab the furniture. I was trying to keep my body in place, but I failed. I can remember the feeling of a bare back on the floor, the carpet under my skin. I've felt that a lot--carpet under my skin. I tell her about waking up. And she asked me this question when I did. I thought I'd throw up. Sometimes her questions feel like a punch in the gut. Sometimes I wish she would just punch me instead.

There are these moments that just don't fade. I think that's her goal, to make them fade. She wants to try this process with other things. She wants to make the panic go away. I believe now that she can do that. I believe she can help me with that. But I don't believe it's enough. I believe she can try to re-frame my thoughts. But I don't believe she will succeed. Maybe I am willful. Maybe I am unwilling to change, but it just seems like I'm right, like I know who I am and what I've done and what I have allowed to be done.

She has me track things that make me happy. It makes me feel blind and weak and as if I have to make something of nothing. I have to celebrate childhood interests as if they matter to me now. I have to pretend to be attached to these things, this life. It's hard to stay attached to these things when you know what it takes to let go. It's hard to make these nothings something when you know how simple other choices are.

I mentioned to her that this is something you have to recommit to everyday. I mentioned this and told her it exhausts me, that I am too tired to keep trying. But I do. I recommit. And I am doing it now again before I take medicine that will help me get the sleep that never comes without it. I am recommitting. I'm trying; though, that never seems to be enough.

In My Imagination . . .

2010-06-12T19:55:00.003-04:00

I recently noticed something on Therapist's rug. It's just your regular floor rug, with its weird pseudo-floral shit has an animalistic quality to it. There's definitely a bird-like creature. And then there is a lion. Actually, it kind of looks like a lion mixed with the Jabberwocky. It's hybridity is what I think led me down this path in my mind.

You see, I often find myself staring at the Jabberlion (that's what I'm calling it). I look down at it when I'm getting angry, when I can't stop clenching my hands. I look down at it a lot. I've taken to imagining myself a certain way while I'm in that room. I can hear it behind my voice when I tell her, as I sometimes do, that what she says sounds like bullshit. I can hear a growl behind my voice. I can imagine my eyes changing, my fingers becoming claws. Of course, I know it's not real. I know I am me, and I will never have the power I imagine, but I can fake it.

I'll let you know when I finish this story.

Things That Don't Suck

2010-06-12T19:53:00.002-04:00

Ugh. Here goes the cheesy activity for the day.

I am grateful to have friends who write about the body in a way that illuminates our connections to the world in which we live.

A Little Exposure Supposedly Does the Trick

2010-06-11T17:30:00.002-04:00

Do you remember some time ago when I told you all I was doing this whole Prolonged Exposure thing? Yeah? Well, I still am. The process goes, as I have likely told you before, like this: I tell the story to Therapist. Therapist and I decide on a beginning, middle, and end (this is the point at which I felt safe again). And then Therapist counts to 100 while I tell the story to myself in my head. I'm doing well, I think. I have managed to make the story more coherent. I have managed to get less and less panicked each time I tell it to myself (though there are sections I fear will never lose their potency). But as much as I am mastering this particular technique, I don't very much feel like this is the final solution.

I have questions. When will he stop living in my head? When will I stop imagining scenarios in which it happens again, in which he finds me? When will I stop thinking about this in a way that is damaging me? Will a time ever come in which I can tell the story without my body waging a full-on war against me?

It seems to me that it's not possible for such a simple thing as telling myself the story to really affect the way I have processed this event for the past 15 years. It seems even if I don't have nightmares, I will still have pieces of it littered throughout everything I think and do. I will still think about the choices I made, and there will always be a part of me that thinks those choices are the reason "really bad thing" happened at all.

I received an email yesterday from a girl I grew up with. It was a quick note telling me about her family and how she's changed, and I am sure that this girl could win an award for major league passive aggressiveness. It bothered me, but not for the reasons you'd expect. This girl and her email? They pulled me back. They took me from my city home to my country past. They pulled me out of the life I am trying to build and planted me firmly in front of a white plantation house in Southern Illinois. And I let him back in.

I found myself sitting at my desk in SoHo thinking about specific things he did, thinking about what his hands felt like, wondering if the rumors of his being in jail are true, hoping he didn't somehow move here, that he can never find me. I found myself outside of theater in Chelsea completely sure that it won't go away, that he'll always possess a part of me--even if he took it by force. I found myself at the bottom of a week of bottoms.

And now I am climbing back up.

Things That Don't Suck

2010-06-11T16:01:00.002-04:00

God, I am already embarrassed.

I am grateful (Jesus, I am going to kill that word with fire) for sci-fi movies in which the guns make that "pew pew" sound.

EDITED TO ADD: Work Friend says she is grateful that Missy (I) make up words like "mayhaps."

Something Cheesy This Way Comes

2010-06-11T15:41:00.004-04:00

All right, all right, I say. Shit. I'll do this exceptionally corny exercise, Therapist. Fine.

I have an exceptionally elevated cheese-meter. I mean, if something has even a whiff of cheesiness to it, I'll reject that shit right quick. I hate cheese, y'all. (Not like cheese you eat. That shit, I love.) But dude, when shit gets all touchy-feely, I tend to just run away screaming, "No! I must pretend to be Superwoman! I cannot have these feelings!"

And so I am struggling with a new project. Therapist hands me a journal of sorts today. And she says this: "I have something for you, and you're not going to like it. You're going to think it's cheesy." Oh boy, was she ever right? I do think it's cheesy.

All right, I'm not being clear. Let's start this mess over, shall we?

I went into therapy this morning after having a weird and unpleasant text conversation with Therapist the night before in which she tried to re-frame my thoughts. I suppose she succeeded in doing so, but I came away thinking, "I don't see how what she typed is really any different than what I typed." You see, she thinks the point of this therapy is to "build a life worth living" and to "learn to tolerate distress." You see, it's that whole Distress Tolerance module of DBT that I find really difficult. (Well, except for the other three modules. I find those pretty difficult too.) To me, the entire notion of distress tolerance is to be okay with being miserable. And I don't want to be okay with being miserable. I want to be better.

So of course, this morning, I tell her this. I tell her that being comfortable with miserable is not my goal. And she finally says something that sinks in a little. She says that it's about accepting yourself as you are in the moment (which sounds foofy, I know) and that once you've done that, you can then actually make the changes you'd like to see in yourself. And I guess, in some very hopeful part of me, that makes sense. (Of course, continuing to go home and wail like a banshee on Friday nights makes a little more sense, but I've decided to go with it. I have to trust this chick at some point, right?)

AnyCharlesCiphers, doing this whole journal thing is not something I am super psyched about. In fact, I am pretty un-psyched about it. It feels sort of pathetic to me--like any day now I'll be emailing inspirational poems with pictures of cats interweaved. But I'm thinking I can probably avoid cat pictures--at least for a few weeks. (Oh, Jesus, Therapist is trying to make me into my mom. I will kill her with fire if that happens.) So I'm going to do this. And you're coming along for the ride. Me and you and a bunch of cat pictures. Okay, let's not bring the cats.

Here's the thing: I am not very motivated to write in an actual journal, so I am thinking that my addiction to blogging might benefit me a bit. I am going to start posting the shit here under the banner: THINGS THAT DON'T SUCK. Okay? I know, I know. It's fucking cheesy. I feel embarrassed just doing it. We'll see if it lasts. My first one is going up in like two minutes. Let's see how long it takes for me to get too embarrassed to continue. Yuk yuk yuk.

Things That Make Me Angry

2010-06-10T16:18:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I wish you could write a blog and have it be all honest and shit, but that you could then hide it in some way so no one would ever read it. I like my secrets spoken--but still secrets.

Closure Comes in a Priority Mail Package

2010-06-09T15:35:00.004-04:00

I lost a friend recently. No, she didn't die. She just left--sort of. She told me she was scared and that she didn't know what to do, and then she left. It seemed at once shocking and inevitable. I wasn't surprised to see her go. But she's left quite a hole.

We had an interesting relationship. It was honest and loving and filled with horror movies. These are the relationships I like best. But it was also unique in that I met her making academic pursuits through which she guided me. She made me feel smart, unique, worth educating--all things a working class Midwesterner can have trouble finding.

When we first bonded it was over The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. I can't think of a better way to make a friend. In a meeting, she'd asked me, "What's your favorite horror movie?" For me, that's like asking which of my fingers I like best. I just can't answer it in an uncomplicated way. So I said this: "Well, my favorite is not necessarily the best. Well, it's the best of its subgenre, but I don't think it's the scariest. I just have a personal relationship with it. My favorite is Halloween, but the best, the scariest is The Texas Chain Saw Massacre." And with that recommendation, she rented it. She saw it for what it is--genius at work. And she sent me an email about it. And from there things bloomed. We talked about horror movies. We exchanged sometimes ten emails a day--always talking about horror movies in a way that revealed our identities and showed each other who we really were.

I told her I hated The Last House on the Left, and I told her it made me feel dirty and abused. I told her she should never see it, but it's a really good fucking film. She told me about these Norwegian movies she'd watched. But in this I am confident. I know more about horror than all the people in my life. Because of this, I was a source for her. And eventually our emails turned into real discussions about who we are as people, what we want, what we need, and what destroys us.

But these relationships, which are often intense, sometimes lose their sustainability. And such intensity often comes from a place of desperation. I was holding onto my life. She was an anchor--one of few. I was holding on to her so that I could hold onto this life. And when that anchor stopped being enough for me, I lost myself, and I ended up in the hospital having had my stomach pumped.

People get lost after these events. That's something I'm learning. Relationships change and end. And as much of me is understanding of that as is angry or hurt. I am angry, and I am hurt. A part of me will never understand the desire to leave someone when they so clearly need those connections. To leave a person in such a position with no anchors is to endanger them, to give them all the more reason to let go of this life. But to be friends with a person like me, who's done the things I've done, is frightening--to say the least. To know someone you care for could disappear is a difficult thing to accept. This I can understand.

I sometimes find myself thinking of her and the things we went through side-by-side. I remember what it's like to care for someone who does the things I've done. I know how angry it can make a person. And I sometimes wonder if my treatment of her was abusive. If it was, for that, I am truly sorry, and I am sure there is no forgiveness on this earth that would make me feel better for having done so. But to feel better is not what I seek. I want to be forgiven, but it's more important that she knows hurting her was not an intention, and I wish that whatever I have done to damage her could be swept away. But I don't believe it can be. I think only time will help her recover from what I've done--time away from me. And that is what she'll have.

I miss her. I won't lie. There is a space in my life that's empty without her around. And I doubt it will ever be filled. She's a unique person, and I don't think I will ever meet another quite like her. Because I cannot contact her, because I can never tell her any of these things, I am saying it here. This is for her: "I am sorry. I miss you. I understand."

If I Do Consider Myself a Film Critic . . .

2010-06-08T14:29:00.004-04:00

I've been reading through some of Roger Ebert's reviews and blogs, and the man has really won me over. I've liked him for a long time. And only recently have I begun reading him in earnest. He's a smart man, and he loves the things he loves passionately and without shame or self-judgment. And that's a philosophy I can get behind--or maybe something of which I wish I was more capable.

Today, reading his blog at The Chicago Sun-Times, I found this:

"Almost the first day I started writing reviews, I found a sentence in a book by Robert Warshow that I pinned on the wall above my desk. I have quoted it so frequently that some readers must be weary of it, but it helps me stay grounded. It says:

A man goes to the movies. A critic must be honest enough to admit he is that man.

That doesn't make one person right and another wrong. All it means is that you know how they really felt, not how they thought they should feel"

Ebert's goal as a film critic is not, then, to tell us which movies are better than others, but only which movies make him feel better or more complicated and exciting emotions than others. And what a noble goal this truly is. Because when we think of what it is that is most important to us as individuals sharing this planet, it has to be (or I suppose I think it should be) our connections to each other. And if this be his goal in discussing a film, then he has strengthened his connection to us all.

Upon reading this and understanding Ebert better, I feel many complicated things. I wonder what my role in all this discussion of film might be. When I think about what my goals as a human being are, I have to say that they match with what seem to be Ebert's goals. I want my connection to individuals to be strong. I want it to matter. And I want to feel like I've been clear and honest about who I am and what that means to both myself and the individuals with which I share both my life and my writing.

I write movie reviews. No one pays me to do this. I do it because I love movies, and I think they are important. I do it because writing about them feels like a logical conclusion to a lifelong obsession. I do it because I can't imagine experiencing all these films alone. Yes, I watch them alone (sometimes) in my bedroom at night with a dog in my lap. And I enjoy my moments alone in the darkness. I enjoy being solitary and silent. But I have felt for a long time that doing so allows that film's experience and importance to end with me. So I find purpose in sharing my love and passion of film-viewing. And today I can thank Ebert for helping me solidify that.

Some may say that I choose to watch films that one would have trouble defining as art. Yes, I suppose that's true. I do spend the majority of my time watching horror films. And I love them--for reasons both personal and public. But to limit my understanding and knowledge of film to such an unreasonable reduction is to do me a discredit. I deserve better, and so do most filmmakers. The films I watch tend to be violent. They tend to be frightening, but is that all they are? I could list a hundred films I have seen that fall into these categories that are all better works of art than most of the other films I have seen that do not fall into these categories. I won't leave this list here. It's home is on my other site.

Of course, I also believe that much is to be said for a film that strives to entertain, but I won't talk about that film the same way I will talk about one which "elevates"--as Ebert suggests. You'll know the difference. And when you pick up a copy of a film I suggest, I only hope you'll let me know what you think, that you'll strengthen our connection in doing so, that we'll both matter that much more.

Things That Make Me Angry

2010-06-08T10:22:00.001-04:00

Blogger is being a bitch. It keeps eating my posts. Bullshit. I'm going to blow it up with a rocket launcher.

I Should Be Writing Something Else

2010-05-28T12:05:00.006-04:00

When I first applied to grad schools before getting my MFA, I thought I had to be a writer. I thought it was the only life for me. And of course, I believed I would find some way to make money from it, to pay my bills with words. I honestly thought nothing else would work, that I'd be miserable and living a lie if I went into any other field.

Sure, I bandied about ideas. I even applied to a PhD program in California. I thought about Clinical Social Work. I thought about Education. I thought, "Hey, I could spend my life teaching maybe?" But inevitably I said no. I couldn't do it. I couldn't be useful to the world in a tangible way. It needed to be ephemeral. It needed to be art.

In the almost three years I've lived in New York, a lot has happened. (That's a raging understatement.) I've learned more about myself than I thought possible. I once believed I knew myself completely, and then I discovered I am this whole person that no one's ever met. And do I write? Yes, I write. I have been writing about movies, about horrors, about things that only I care about. And I haven't written them in a way that makes others care. I haven't used this knowledge I've gained to contribute to the world, which is what I always thought writing was really about--contributing to the world.

I lost sight of that goal I had, and I wonder now--now that I've been hospitalized three times and overdosed once--have my goals changed? The part of me that once felt devoted to producing something beautiful on the page is now devoted to constantly re-committing herself to not dying. I had never expected staying on this Earth to be the hardest thing I'd ever do.

I'm almost thirty years old, and I have no idea what I want right now, what kind of life I might be able to have. So I think it's time I start investigating it.

"This shirt just does nothing for me..."

2010-05-24T11:06:00.003-04:00

In the past, I have posted about inane elevator conversations, and yes, they do drive me insane. But there is something that drives me even more insane--being trapped in an elevator listening to a conversation that is at once inane and offensive at the same time.

STORY TIME: So I am heading over to our main building to drop off/pick up proofs. I see my Manufacturing liaison, and I grab my proofs and start out on the street. When I get back to our building, I see that there are two people walking side-by-side toward the elevator. Okay, whatever--except they're walking really slowly. I do that whole get really close behind them thing so they can see how annoying it is that they are walking so slow it's like someone dropped me off in Alabama, and they take notice of me. In fact, the woman looks back at me. Does my not-so-subtle cue even register? You bet not. They keep walking this slow.

When we finally get into the elevator, they push "2." I know this wouldn't bother most people, but to me, this is like a slap in the face. Why the fuck do you need to be in the elevator if you are only going one fucking floor? These are two able-bodied people who are in the elevator with me. And they chose to not take the stairs for what reason? I know it's silly, but I just always think, well, you know, you are slowing this shit down for everyone else because you are too lazy to walk up one fucking flight of stairs.

Whatever.

So while we are in the elevator, they both stand directly in the middle of the car. Again, WHAT THE FUCK? They are positioned so that it is almost impossible for me to not touch them. Now, I know I am pathological about this shit. I mean, when someone sits in front of me in an empty theater, I get really, really angry. But this is ridiculous. No one wants to share a teeny tiny space with strangers, and then you have to go an make it worse by forcing me to physically interact with you?

As you can see, the general state of this elevator ride was uncomfortable. But it gets worse from here. You see, our elevators have mirrors in them. This is something that is quite common in an elevator, but I actually find it unnecessary and often unnerving. So the lady of this duo starts looking at herself in the mirror and says this: "This shirt just does nothing for me." And it was one of those moments when it's totally obvious that she said it so that her male counterpart (who was gay) would compliment her and make her feel pretty. She managed to take the no more than thirty seconds we were in this elevator together and turn them into a "You're so pretty. Don't be silly." party for herself. And it was... infuriating.

You see, to me, listening to a beautiful woman (as this woman was) talk about herself as if she is not beautiful is a really, really degrading experience. I mean that if you are not supermodel "thin and gorgeous" (as Edina Monsoon would say), how are you supposed to think of yourself upon hearing this?

It goes something like this:
"Wow. She's really beautiful."
*You overhear her saying something negative about her appearance. Perhaps she even uses the word ugly.*
"She thinks she is ugly?"
*You look down at yourself or maybe glance into the elevator mirror.*
"Well, I must be a wildebeest. No, I must be something even worse than that. If she is what ugly is, I can't even imagine what people think of me when they see me. People must think I am the most disgusting thing on the planet. Oh God, why did I leave the house looking like this? Why did I leave the house at all? Maybe I should just join a freak show...."

And it continues like that.

Now, I know that even traditionally beautiful women have body issues. I know. But I am going to say something really unpopular right now: I don't give a shit. Unless you have severe Body Dysmorphic Disorder, you know you are not totally ugly. You may feel ugly, but you know that others don't see you that way. (I seriously doubt that all of these women have that disorder.) So how can you say something like this in front of a person who is obviously less attractive than you? You have to know that that person is going to leave--even this thirty second encounter--feeling like shit. Are you just an inconsiderate asshole?

I choose to believe that you are. Fuck it. You are. Maybe I'm the asshole, but right now I don't give a shit.

So there.

Yearian out.

Things That Make Me Happy

2010-05-21T10:17:00.002-04:00

Sometimes I like to play Russian Roulette with the vending machine in my office. I put in 85 cents, and I pick a letter. Then I just put my fingers gently on like five different numbers, and I press them all at the same time. I like to see what comes out. Like I told you, I live life on the edge.

Things That Make Me Angry

2010-05-18T14:17:00.003-04:00

Well here is a story for today. I am poor, so I got street meat because it is cheap. I am happily eating said street meat, and then I feel something hard. And I’m all what is this hard substance? I roll it about on my tongue, feeling it to see if I can discern its qualities. And I feel it is somewhat jagged and also sharp, and I decide, “No, I mustn’t eat this.” So I take it out of my mouth with my finger. This is when I see that it is glass.

HOW DO I KNOW THAT I DID NOT EAT GLASS?!?

I'm a Bit of an Anger Ball Today, Folks

2010-05-18T11:05:00.001-04:00

I thought I'd get that out of the way right up top. I thought I might have something funny to share with you today, but I don't really. I am sorry for that. It seems treatment is sucking the funny from my soul, and all I've got left is a series of fucks and shits and goddamns; though, I suppose those can be funny in their own way--if you've got the right kind of perspective on them. (I'm sure none of you are quite the eight-year-old sailor I am, so you probably aren't in that camp. Sorry.)

On Friday night I arrived home to finish up my translations and watch a movie. If you've read my previous Friday night blog, you know that my film choice was The Last House on the Left remake, and you know that was likely a bad choice on my part. Well, I am here to confirm that this was a bad, bad choice. It resulted in some sort of fit. This is a fit that was wholly unfamiliar to me, and I have never experienced anything like it before. Sometime after posting that diatribe on how awful that movie was and how it assaulted my sanity much like the first film assaulted my sanity, I started to cry. At first I thought, "Okay, I hate crying, but whatever." Then the crying became epic. I was violently sobbing in a way I had never done before; my entire body was shaking. This violent sobbing gave way to hyperventilating and dry-heaving. And at around midnight or one in the morning, I texted Therapist, who rightly did not respond. When calming myself down became impossible, I took drugs, and I eventually fell asleep.

Doctor called me in the morning, and I spoke with him only to fall asleep immediately after and forget everything he said to me. Yeah, I mean everything. He could have told me that he wanted me to shave my head and that the monkeys were coming to get my grandma, and I would have been all "Okay, Doctor. Whatever you say." (Both of my grandmas are dead, b-t-dubbs.) I was re-awakened by Therapist. She sent me a text about sadness and shame. This resulted in a thwarted and awkward text conversation that I barely took part in, and was cut off yet again. I took the dog out to pee, and I crawled into bed. I didn't really climb out again until Monday morning.

I live life on the edge folks.

Therapist did call later in the day and sort of cajoled me into taking a shower, which is this thing that she convinced me to do without realizing that doing so would make me connect with my body, and connecting with my body is a dangerous thing. I am never safe when I am connected to my body. I understand it in a way that is maybe not realistic, but it is what is real to me. And I see it as something I don't own but rather owns me. And so the sadness and shame we were discussing via text became amplified by this shower in which I had to see my body and interact with it. I did not tell Therapist this. When I called her back as requested, I just told her that I didn't want to talk about it. I told her I would see her on Tuesday.

And Tuesday is today. I arrived damp again. Seriously, Therapist is a rain dance or something. Why am I always arriving to her office in the fucking rain? Yes, yes, I know the amount of time I spend in her office is what makes it so likely that I will be walking to and fro in the rain, but I was being hyperbolic. Work with me, folks. Sheesh. Anyway, being damp makes me already annoyed and not really willing to deal with this. And what's the first thing we do? The whole counting to 100 "really bad thing" story deal. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you should click back a few posts for the full story. And I think maybe I am getting better at that, but I still start to freak out a little in the middle section. Maybe I just said something hopeful just now. One thing I can say for sure is that it is awesome that it I don't have to talk about it after we do that.

And then we move on. Her immediate subject choice is suicidality. I didn't ask why at the time, but I wish I would have. I want to know why she thought to ask this, why she wanted to know what was going on in my head as regards this topic, how she knew this was important right now.

I totally deflected. I mean, dude, you should have seen it. I was skilled. I totally got her talking about something else like snap. You would have been amazed at my mad deflecting skills. Yeah, it probably wasn't the best thing I've ever done, but I did it, and it can't be undone. So there. Byah! (In case you were wondering what that sound effect was, it was a Howard Dean scream. Yeah, I still do that from time to time because it gives me a little tickle.)

AnyWillowRosenberg, from there we moved on to my failed career, to the mess I have made of my life, to what I have lost over the past year, to how childish I feel when I get angry and feel like this is all very unfair. And I started to think I might cry. And then I deflected again. I started bitching about my job. Good job me! Again, mad deflecting skills.

Eh. She should really catch onto this. (Eh, again. Who says she hasn't?)

Why Do I Do These Things to Myself?

2010-05-14T21:32:00.007-04:00

Some years ago I saw The Last House on the Left. I have issues with this film. I have a lot of issues with this film. You know that tagline that says, "Keep repeating, it's only a movie, it's only a movie, it's only a movie"? Yeah? Well, that doesn't work for me. That movie assaulted my sanity. I have now seen it twice, and my brain rocketed out of my skull... and well, space peanuts, y'all, space peanuts. Seeing the film activated my whole "really bad thing" mess and gave me nightmares, and y'all, no horror movie gives me actual nightmares. I mean, last night I had a dream that I was TJ in My Bloody Valentine, but that was more fun that anything else--like those dreams I have that I'm Laurie Strode.

Shit, I'm getting off-topic again.

AnyAndreaDworkin, rape revenge films are generally off the menu for me since I saw this. Even though everyone talks about I Spit on Your Grave (Day of the Woman) like it's the greatest movie in the history of the moving image, I have decided to not see it. I made this decision even though there is a huge part of me that wants to, that sort of feels like a heel being a horror fan who hasn't seen it. But I know it will activate things I can't handle and that I'll end up spending all my time with Therapist talking about how stupid I am for watching it to begin with, how I should have known better than to press play on a DVD that I knew contained a 26-minute rape scene (yes, you read that right--26 minutes). My point here is that I can't handle rape revenge films. They hurt me in my soul, and I actually have an intellectual problem with them as well. They usually represent the rape in exactly the wrong way, but I am not writing about that today. I'm not in the headspace to intellectualize sexual violence right now.

So my problem begins when someone decides to remake a movie. You see, when movies I have seen (even ones I hate) get remade, I always have this compulsion to see the remake. But when I heard they were making The Last House on the Left, I was like, "Oh no, I like my sanity, and I want to keep it." But then I was talking to the first of my Hawaii 5-0 friends, and she told me how awful it was, I was like, "Hmm... maybe I can feel all vindicated-like about this." And I added it to my queue, and I bumped it up. And I just watched it.

And dude, I don't know. I mean. Um. How do I... ? What do I say? I should.... Do you? Have you seen this movie?

It's... not good. Here's the thing, I have this very violent impulse and urge to see these people punished, and there is this part of me that is satiated by that, but the satisfaction in this was not as much as I'd hoped because they damaged it with a corruption of the family unit of the baddies. In the original film, the baddies are all bad. But in this remake, there is a son, and he's good. And that's the problem, it seems. There is nothing pure and evil about it. And that, I think, is what ultimately worked about the first film. As much as I hate that film and as much as it hurts my soul to admit this, Wes Craven absolutely accomplished his task with it. And in the end, when I witnessed the murder of those baddies, I needed to see it. But in this film, even though the violence visited upon Mari was horribly brutal and unbearable for me to witness, I was less convinced by the proceedings, and ultimately the ending I needed to feel okay about what I'd just witnessed never really came, and I left the film feel abused again.

I have left this mess feeling bad again. I should not have watched this, kiddies. Bad choice. Bad, bad choice. Someone talk me out of this next time.

Why do I do these things to myself y'all?

And the Hits Just Keep On Coming

2010-05-14T15:54:00.000-04:00

I've been an absentee blogger this week. For that, I am sorry. Things have gotten, shall we say... dark? And when things get that way, I sometimes get silent and I don't really end up taking the time to parse it out like I should. I don't bother to write to "figure out what I'm thinking"--as Joan Didion so succinctly put it. (You know she's completely right about that? I realized that when I was teaching writing to undergrads. That is the primary reason I have always written--to understand my own thoughts. Go Joan Didion. You rock my world once again. I mean, you know, after Slouching Towards Bethlehem and The White Album and all that jazz.)

So what's been going on? Well, other than having that visit from the NYPD and shit, I've been busying myself with some German short stories that need to be in English. "Says who?" you ask. "Says I!" No, really, says my requirements for my MFA. Translating literature from German into English makes me feel like the zombies from City of the Living Dead are doing that whole grab the brain out from the back of my skull thing to me. Maybe that wasn't clear. They literally push their hands through the skull into the brain and pull it out. Yeah, it's pretty awesome. But it's not as awesome as when that chick started crying blood and then vomited up all her organs.

Wait, what was I talking about?

Oh, right, I didn't have any sessions this week until yesterday, and I guess I thought I would take some sort of break from thinking about treatment during that time. Or I guess I was just so in my head that I couldn't get out far enough to write and think, so whatever. Get off my back, all right? I'm here now. Doesn't that count for something? I mean, shit. That NYPD post is fucking golden, okay? Shit, that should have lasted you days--DAYS, I tell ya!

Okay, onto business. "Really bad thing" is officially completely out there, and now what happens is this: I tell myself the story while Therapist counts to 100. We've chosen a beginning, middle, and end. And so now I have had two sessions in which I did this. And for some reason I can't discern, right before I am expected to do this, I start to panic. My body freaks out on me. And I quite simply don't want to do it. But Therapist says to accept the fear and do it anyway. And so I do. And it seems to go by really fast. 100 is not a very high number, y'all. And I have to fit what seems like the hugest story in the history of history into that 100... I won't call them seconds because it feels like they have to be shorter than seconds. And the thing is, I can't seem to go in order. It's like this: "Okay, I am going to a party... blue tent... walking around the town... No, that's not next. Shit, in the tent...." And it goes on like this. All over the place. I don't know if I should be practicing or what because after two tries it doesn't seem any different. And I seem to find it hard to keep focused on the task. Like, my mind says, stop thinking about this, which I find very strange because whenever I want to think about it, I can't, but when I don't want to, I can't stop. Funny thing, that trauma.

And so it goes and goes.

And then there are more stories coming out. I told Therapist about something today that confuses me. I call it Maximum Overdrive Night. It was New Year's Eve, and I was 19. A very stupid 19, apparently. I was in a hotel room with a friend, her boyfriend, and two of his male friends. I won't say much more, but it may qualify as "potential really bad thing no. 2" if I could just figure out what actually happened. Anyway, I am telling Therapist about this, and we inevitably run out of time, but just before we do, she asks me a question that might help me figure out what really happened, but in doing so she kind of kicks me in the stomach, and now I am spending the rest of the day with this hole in my stomach, and I can't seem to fill it. (If you want to know what the question is... well, I thought about telling you, and you know, I even typed it, but it felt like I was exploiting myself, and I don't want to do that. We've discussed this before. So stop asking. Gosh, you guys are so needy. Not really, this is all about me explaining away my need to be secretive.)

So where am I now? I'm in a hole, I guess. I'm feeling pretty hopeless, and I just can't help but wonder how many "really bad thing"s can happen to a person before she becomes cursed with them? Yesterday Therapist said that she had just realized that there was a lot she needed to learn about me, and after I told this story today, what I did not say is that there are more just like it. And while she might not be floored by that fact, I am. My knowing that I have more of these to tell has me falling down right now.

I can't say anymore right now. I'm spent.

Adventures with the New York City Police Department

2010-05-11T10:09:00.002-04:00

Best Friend and I live our lives together like two potheads (except we are too old to smoke pot now). We eat and watch movies. That's eat, dudes. We eat shitty foods that taste delicious (when I can't muster the strength to eat healthy) and we watch horror movies we've seen ten thousand times and usually talk through them or sleep through them. This is the life we've chosen, and usually we love it.

So it won't surprise you when I tell you that last night we were eating pizza and cheeseburgers and watching Alien. We love Alien a lot... a lot a lot. Like, seriously, I am pretty sure that Ellen Ripley is my muthafuckin' hero. Way to totally kick ass Sigourney. So when Best Friend read me something Stephen (or is it Steven) King said about Ellen Ripley's gender in Alien, I was all, "Now I have to watch that." And Best Friend was all, "Cool."

So we are sitting there watching Alien, and I'm all "I smell egg salad."
And Best Friend is all "No. That's just cheeseburgers and pizza."
"No, it's egg salad."
"I don't smell anything."
Time passes. The alien gets off of Kane's face. Best Friend confesses, "You know when I was a kid, I totally thought the alien squeaked because of Ellen Ripley's shoes on the floor."
"You're a dork."
The alien pops out of Kane's chest. "Okay, now I smell egg salad too. Are we going to have anyeurysms or seizures?"
"That seems unlikely?"
"Maybe the neighbors are making egg salad?"
"That also seems unlikely. I am taking my medicine." Please note that my nighttime medicine makes me about as functional as an amoeba. "Maybe we should call 3-1-1."
"No. That's not necessary."

More time passes, and the smell remains. We do not know what this smell could possibly be. How did it settle on just this small corner of our apartment? It seemed to come from nowhere. What is it? WHAT?
"I am getting really tired? Do you think I'm dying? I think it's the egg salad."
"That's it. I'm calling 3-1-1."

When I pick up the phone to dial, I wonder what I will say. I can feel my medication beginning to work. This could be a very tenuous situation. They may think I am insane or potentially developmentally disabled. I will tell them that I smell egg salad. And I will explain that I know it seems funny, but I wasn't sure who to call or what to do. Yes, this seems not insane. Right?

"3-1-1."
"Hi. I'm not sure I am calling the right number, but there seems to be a funny smell in my apartment, and I am not sure where it's coming from or if it is safe."
"Okay, is it gas?"
"No. It's egg salad."
*I can feel the 311 man deciding I am insane through the phone*
"Okay, um, are you sure it's not gas?"
"Yes, I know what gas smells like, and it's not gas. It smells just like egg salad."
"Is anyone in your apartment sick?"
"Just tired."
"Like more than normal?"
"I think so."
"Okay. Hold on."

I am on hold for several minutes while 311 Man decides whether or not I am insane or developmentally disabled. Once the decision is made, he returns.

"Ma'am, since someone is feeling tired, I am connecting you with 9-1-1. Let me just say my name, and then you can take it from there."

We'll just fast forward over this part. The 9-1-1 Operator sends the police to my apartment. She decides that we are all going to die. Yes, apparently egg salad will kill us all, so we must be saved as soon as possible. When the police arrive they come to the door completely unaware of their purpose.

"Did you call us?"
"Sort of." For some reason, even though I am completely retarded (yes, I said retarded. I can't get it out of my vocabulary.), the roomies let my medicated ass take the lead on this.
"What's going on?"
"It smells like egg salad. Don't you smell it?"
"Ma'am, what's going on?"
"We called 3-1-1 because we smelled this funny smell."
"Where is the smell?"
"Here in this hallway and in this room." I point over to my closed bedroom.
"Is there a dead body in there?"
I cannot help but make a confused face at the officer at this point, and I know I am medicated, but he did just ask me if there was a dead body in my bedroom. "That's my bedroom. There is no dead body."
"Do you keep things in there?"
"That's my bedroom?"
"Is there stuff in there?"
I don't think he understands what a bedroom is. "Yes. I like live in there."
"Well, move it around and look for the smell."
"Um... okay."

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that New York must be the safest place on Earth with protectors like this! Why how could anyone ever question our safety? By gods, I know I was absolutely floored by this encounter.

Yeah, fin.

Why Hynocil Is Still Only a Dream

2010-05-10T17:29:00.006-04:00

I thought I should post something today, but seeing as this is predominantly a treatment diary and a place where I tell you all that you should see and love The Fog as much and as often as I do, and I don't have group today, I am thinking I might not have anything to say.

That's a lie.

You see, I have something to say. I do. But I am suddenly faced with the urge to not just be vague but to actually keep something a secret. You see, weekends are tough for me. I tend to do really poorly on weekends. I have a lot of idle time on weekends, what without working for the man and writing to you about space peanuts and whatnot. I mean, I sit at home watching re-runs of 30 Rock and thinking about the stupid shit I have done over the past year, and I wonder how I have actually managed to stay alive and then I start to wonder why I have managed to stay alive instead of how, and then things get sort of dark in here, and yeah, things get bad. And I find it hard to be funny when I am staring down the barrel of a ... ... ... well, you know how that tired old metaphor goes.

I said I would be vague but honest, right? Okay, so this "disorder" that I have gives me impulses sometimes that are bad... like really bad. (I am blaming the disorder today, but I know that's bullshit.) No, I don't mean like "eat an entire red velvet cake" bad, though it does give me those too. They are more like... "eat an entire bottle of Seroquel" bad. Yeah, so that's the tunnel I was digging into on Saturday night. So let's just see if I can't try to see what led me down that path, no? In DBT we call this a behavioral analysis. Of course, as I am a blogger and not a therapist, what we will be doing is bullshitting and trying to figure this out and maybe getting a giggle out of my troubles in the process. At least I hope so. I haven't planned this out or anything. What? You think I write this shit before I sit in front of the computer? Dream on.

So I started a new medication. You may have read this on my short and lonely weekend post. For our purposes we will call this medication Hypnocil. Why? Well, it's essentially meant to stop me from having PTSD-related nightmares. Here's the catch: It doesn't work. Yeah, all it did was make me sleep endlessly and have nightmares while I was sleeping endlessly. I would lie there--lights on or off--and sleep. I could not get out of bed to save my life. No really. I am sure that if someone had broken into my apartment or that if my apartment had been on fire, I would have burned alive. So Hypnocil sucks. By the time I was able to crawl out of bed at 7pm, I was horribly depressed. It still seems odd to me that there is no way to describe these things other than to say "depressed," but there it is. I was depressed.

So on Saturday I am sitting in my bed watching Designing Women (because who can be sad with Dixie, Delta, Annie, and Jean?) and trying my damndest not to stare at the giant bottle of Seroquel sitting there staring at me. Sometimes I think I have synesthesia, but then I remember that no, green is green and I don't taste it. It's just green. But I do think my pill bottles stare back at me as longingly as I stare at them. You see, I like drugs. I like being on them. I like taking them. The more likely they are to shut me down, the more I long for them. This is just my nature. I was a wake-and-baker my last two years of undergrad, so I know the lure of a medicated brain. And that is what Seroquel provides.

It's hard to defeat the logic of feeling nothing when what you feel is often too much. And too muchness should be the name of my disorder, I think. That's what it's all about. Too much is always what you're feeling. Okay, you're sad. Most people can handle that. Sure, I can handle sad. But I can't handle this epic fucking sadness that makes me feel like my brain is melting out of my skull, that makes my chest feel hollow and like it's not even really connected to my body anymore. No, that I cannot handle. So it wasn't all that new or surprising when I thought I could take all them there Seroquel and make that feeling go away.

(Confession, readers: I know what an overdose feels like. 02/23/10. I did that. I know what it's like.)

Moving on. So I know what it feels like to almost get there. And almost get there, I did. I was pulled back by a phone call. I won't say much more than that. A good friend I met in a place I never want to see again, she talked me into a place that felt safe again, but I've been down this road before, and I think I'll go down it again.

These weeks are getting harder.

And this has been hard for me to post. It's a shitty little piece, and I'm sorry I haven't made you laugh, but it's the closest to the truth I can get today. It's all your're getting right now. Sorry.

Why I Don't Usually Blog on Weekends

2010-05-09T19:04:00.003-04:00

Well, I've pretty much been asleep for two entire days. I am now sitting here editing a review of The Human Centipede, which was awful, and watching Designing Women.

Anyway, I started the new medication this weekend, and I think it's having the opposite effect on me. It was supposed to stop nightmares and stop the whole "waking up in a panic" thing, but it seems to have increased that. Hmm. I believe my trust of Doctor is decreasing. And it is making me sleep through everything. My weekends are disappearing. This fucking sucks.

That's my weekend update.

Have a good one.

Things That Make Me Angry

2010-05-07T17:49:00.003-04:00

I was just standing next to vomit for a full seven minutes and no one told me. Sometimes this fucking city pisses me off. I may have actually stepped into the vomit at some point. INTO THE VOMIT! DO YOU HEAR ME?!

How to Reveal Your Most Shameful Secret in an Email

2010-05-07T16:33:00.001-04:00

The first thing you do in this process is sit down at your desk and pick your music. If you have just purchased the newest New Pornographers album, you will, of course, choose this. Together, it is. Okay, Neko Case and A.C. Newman, it is. You are ready.

You open the email from Therapist. Naturally, you have to re-read it. It's a short email, this will only take a moment. Upon doing so you notice that she only referenced the Golden Girls when mentioning your reference of Rue McClanahan. What gives? Hasn't Therapist seen Mama's Family? You become momentarily distracted by the awesomeness of Mama's Family and Golden Girls.

Then you click into the box to begin your reply. Sit completely still for six minutes watching the cursor blink. You are frozen. You realize that your "Lo, I have an idea" email from earlier was the douchiest email you have ever sent in your entire life, and you so wish that all of the science fiction movies you have ever seen in your entire life were real just so that one--fucking one--of them with a time machine was real so that you could take that email back and not have sent it.

Realize you can't stand the music and turn it off.

Decide to blog about the process of writing this email. And hope beyond hope that the blogging somehow forces you to (as your father might say) "shit or get off the pot."

So shit, you do.

You type this sentence as a starter: "Okay, so like a band-aid, right?" You immediately hate this sentence. You feel passionately that this is the worst sentence that has ever been written in the history of the written word. No, since cave paintings. Decide that you can delete this sentence and fix it later. Wonder if Therapist will give a shit about how well-written the email is. Wonder if it really matters. Decide that it does. Therapist knows you are a writer, after all. You do have something to live up to, whatever that something may be.

Click back over to the email and try to start again.

Get interrupted by a phone call about printer proofs. You were really zen about shit, and this really pisses you off. Try to get zen mode back. Fail. Try again. Click back to the email. Go. Here you go. Click. Now. Go.

It truly amazes you how impossible this feels. You have one sentence, and it feels like a novel. Your heart is pounding, and you have chewed actual wounds into the sides of your mouth. You can taste actual blood. You should probably stop chewing now, but you won't. You may switch sides, though. That's what you usually do. Okay, you are going back to the email. No more distractions.

Okay, that counts as a paragraph, and as your breathing has changed significantly, you think it's definitely time for a break. It's amazing how this feels exactly the same as sitting there with Therapist. Wow, it kind of sucks. You feel bad that this blog is now devolving into bad seventh grade vocabulary. It is time to click back, you think. Okay, click.

So you sit in front of the computer with your fingers on the keys for ten solid minutes without moving. Ten solid minutes. And then you have to click away. You think of the words you have to type, and you realize, "Oh no, I cannot possibly type those words outside of fiction." But then you think, "Well, maybe I can type them and then if I hate them, I can delete them." Yes, this will be your plan. You have effectively tricked yourself into doing this. Success. Well, maybe. Now, go. Click back into that email.

And now you are stuck. You have to use this word or this other word. And you don't know which one. You see, this is a shameful secret, and either one feels playful and wrong and even more shameful, and typing these words makes you feel nauseous and angry, so what do you do? You sit staring at the email for another ten minutes.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

You have typed the word and the one that followed--the one you were sure would make you throw up. But you are having trouble looking at the screen. You will have to proof this email at some point, and you are going to have to avoid having a panic attack when doing so. How are you going to do that? Best not to think of that now.

Jesus, you just sent it--without proofing it. You are a goddamned drill sargeant about proofing emails. But it's gone. It's sent. No sci-fi movies. No solutions. It's gone. That's the whole story. Gone. She's got it now. And that's over.

You now get to throw up.

"Tonight is the night, and I'm feeling all right..."

2010-05-07T12:45:00.005-04:00

Well, I have finally made the decision. Best Friend and I are seeing The Human Centipede tonight. It's time. Expect a full review at Chickapin Parish sometime this weekend.

EDITED TO ADD: Most ridiculous thing I have ever seen in my entire life--ever, ever, EVER. Review will appear at Fused Film instead. I'll post a link when it's up.

The Things I Can't Seem to Say Out Loud and a Series of Fears I Hope to Never Realize

2010-05-07T11:21:00.000-04:00

Well, kids, I am not quite sure where to begin today. The 5% of "really bad thing" that I have to get out there did not come shooting out of my mouth with speed lines attached like I thought it would.

Okay, in reality, I did not expect speed lines. I expected something more Cronenbergian--maybe like viscera that were keeping the words attached to the interior of my mouth as I struggled to pull them from it. Yeah, that is more the way I imagine this in my brainmeats. I have a feeling Therapist would not think this is a productive way to think of it. Today she said that imagining myself saying it too much could become paralyzing. I hadn't really considered this. It goes like this in my brain:

"Okay, so I will say it like this [please note that many words will be omitted for my privacy... again with the vague, I know]: So we were walking, and he put *** **** under ** *****. And I didn't really react. And then when he slid it ***** my *** and put it on ** ****** I again did nothing. And he just kept ******* with ** ****** for the duration."

See, I thought doing the whole imagining it thing would take some of its power away--sort of like practicing a speech in front of the mirror in junior high school. But now that I am sitting here looking at the words (even with most of them missing) just lying here in this editable post in blogger, and I feel completely panicked about the notion that I am going to have to hit the "publish post" button at some point today. (Don't worry. I have guts. I'll hit it. There is so much distance between me and you, dear readers, that I will muster that courage.) So I guess what I am saying is that, yeah, I see what she's saying now. I guess it can be paralyzing. Color me paralyzed, y'all.

AnyBeaArthur, at some point in one of these confusingly short but seemingly endless sessions, I had mentioned to Therapist that I am often a blurter. Translation: I will often just blurt things out with no real context just to get them out there on the table. And today she asked if that is how it's going to come out. And I had to say that I don't know because in that moment, I just didn't think it possible. I can imagine myself sitting there and then suddenly saying it, but even imagining that makes my heart start to pound, so I'm guessing that won't happen.

And now I am struck with an idea. I was thinking I could suggest trying to put it in an email. Maybe this seems like a chickenshit thing to do, but maybe I am just going to have to be a chickenshit about this. (As a side note, Firefox apparently thinks chickenshit is a word, and I cannot tell you how happy that makes me.) So, I'm thinking about it. I'll let you know how it goes.

As another side note, the process of getting billed by Therapist is a strange one because there is this sort of "alliance" between a therapist and a client, but the fact that you have to pay them sort of undermines that. Don't get me wrong, I am ten thousand percent sure that what Therapist does is very, very hard and that she deserves far more money than she gets paid. That is not at all what I mean. I am not trying to devalue her work. It just feels strange to pay someone to care about you. And there is this very tiny unloved piece of me that wants to be all "Why can't you care about me and help me without me having to pay you for it?" Okay, side note over.

AnyAdrienneBarbeau, there are other problems I am having with this process. And this is, I think, the first time I have ever put this in (cyber)print. I am really worried that she is going to dump me like a I gave her herpes. Look, guys, I have had a lot of therapists. And most of those therapists have dumped me. And when things are actually going somewhere and you know what happens when you are out of treatment and you know what it's like when you have a shitty therapist and you know what kind of stupid shit you do when you have a shitty therapist (and let me tell you, there are therapists out there that are so bad they make Shark Attack 3: Megalodon look like an Oscar-contending film), you get scared of shit like this. So I am so fucking paranoid about losing this therapist that I am actually afraid of saying or doing anything that could push her toward thinking I am somehow more of a problem than she can handle. Like, I am actively not telling her things I should probably be telling her. And that is just stupid. It's like "stop eating the paste" stupid. And I know it is. And I can't seem to even say, "Hey Lady, could you not dump me? 'Cause that would be awesome."

Yeah, fear seems to be the great motivator for me right now.

AnyBillyCrystal*, let's talk about Shark Attack 3! Did I ever tell you that I want to have that movie's babies? No, I am serious. The fucking shark growls! It growls. And it eats an entire boat. And it swallows a man on a sea-do. And a man has a line that is truly something that has to have been written while high on cocaine--or crystal meth if you're from the Midwest. It's just a beautiful disaster. And I am not talking like a Richard Kelly movie (Southland Tales, anyone?). No, no. I am talking about something that fails on so many levels that you cannot believe that you have witnessed such epic fail. Epic-fucking-fail. It was goddamned magical. Get this movie in your home.

Oh, shit. I can't wait to see Birdemic.

*I actually do not like Billy Crystal. He was just the first name that entered my brainmeats.

Things That Make Me Angry

2010-05-06T10:45:00.006-04:00

I've been looking at internet message boards again. You see, I am going to see The Human Centipede this weekend. And so I ended up getting linked to IMDB, ANOTHER DOUCHER posted the message from the screenshot up above. Now, I could have replied on IMDB and gotten into a bitch-fight, but instead I have chosen to vent about it here, and pick this shit apart, so that I don't end up losing my shit in an even more public forum than this.

Okay, let's start at the top. I haven't seen this movie yet, and I have to be honest and say that I don't actually think it's going to be that successful of a film. I think it will probably fail on multiple levels, but I will also say that Tom Six intentionally chose a German antagonist to reference the Nazi experiments during WWII, so when ANOTHER DOUCHER implies that there is no "deeper meaning" (which is possibly the worst way to word that in the history of history), he is clearly wrong. (Yes, I am being sexist and assuming that ANOTHER DOUCHER is a man.)

"I think it's safe to say, that as a horror movie, it has no deeper meaning. It's an attempt to shock and terrify people as that genre is meant to do."

Okay, okay. I'm trying to stay calm upon reading this. This is just so fucking reductive. I mean, as a genre fan, I can assure you times ten thousand percent that while horror films are always trying to scare you and sometimes to shock you, they are almost always trying to do other things as well. They are not universally trying to shock. This is not the primary function of the genre. And for fuck's sake, they are certainly not trying to do it in the way that a film like this is.

Oh, Cronenberg would be so hurt by this.

I get really, really fucking angry when I see shit like this. I mean, I start to sort of explode a little. Do you remember when we talked about space peanuts? Yeah, I am eating space peanuts at my desk right now.

Why? WHY? WHY?!?!? Why can't people understand that horror movies can be smart? Why is this such a difficult thing to understand? Shit, it's like no one has ever even seen The Changeling. Fuck.

I have to learn to stop reading this shit.

In other news, someone compared this movie to Martyrs. I mean, I know I haven't seen it yet, but I can't see how that's possible.

EDITED TO ADD: There is definitely no deeper meaning to The Human Centipede, but I stand by the belief that there is often a "deeper meaning" to a lot of horror films.

I Am So Bored With Myself (This Post Is Much in the Way of Randomness)

2010-05-05T17:50:00.002-04:00

I keep promising you all a legitimate post, but I'm not sure I have anything legitimate to say. I can say that it's 3:35pm right now, and I imagine this post will take me the rest of the day.

I know what I can do; I can tell you about my exciting afternoon activities. Do you want to know what I've been doing for the last hour? Well, do you? DO YOU?!? Fine. Screw you. I'm telling you anyway. I've been coding my time. Apparently this is something you do in the corporate world. The Man (whoever that douchebag may be) wants to know where his money is going, so there is a system in place by which each employee says how he or she spends his or her time. At our particular company, we have these codes. It's like 4,285,792 digits and then 658,792 letters that say what project you are working on. And as if this isn't enough, they also ask you to describe what you were specifically doing for this project in the notes section.

Interestingly, there is no charge code for charging your time to charge codes. Hmmm.

(I just realized that there may be some kind of weird corporate confidentiality thing that says I am not supposed to talk about this shit, but I think I may have been vague enough to get away with it. And I am pretty sure I never signed anything. Don't get me fired, readers, because then I won't be able to afford internet, and I will become a real hobo, and I will just ride the rails all day, and you will never get another post about Marjoe Gortner again.)

I have also been reading Hyperbole and a Half, which, if you haven't taken a gander at it, is a very clever blog that I get a big kick out of and actually read and re-read on a regular basis. You mark my words (Jesus, I sound like my grandmama), this lady will write a graphic novel one day when they cure her ADHD.

But in reality, I am just trying to distract myself. You see, I saw Doctor this morning, and I feel like I yelled at him in my way. I've been thinking about weight too much. And I've been thinking about how much I love my Seroquel, and I've been thinking about whether or not that is okay with me and whether or not I would rather get fat again and sleep or stay awake all night and get skinny again. And I know this sounds vain to most people, but most people didn't grow up in my house, and those of you who know me, and most of you do, know what I mean.

(Gods help me, if even one of you posts a comment that says "I hear ya," I will fucking explode with rage. I know that's bitchy, but you saw that crab post, right? And I know I am vague all the time, but trust me, this is one time when I can assure you, you don't hear me. You don't fucking have any clue what I am talking about. If you weren't there, you don't know.)

AnyMadelineKahn, I just don't think I want to be on all these meds if I am not noticing any fucking difference in my mood--especially if I am noticing a negative differences in my body.

You dig?

DRAMATIC CHANGE OF SUBJECT BECAUSE I AM OFFICIALLY UNCOMFORTABLE

I am having a thing today. Yes, a thing. What is this thing? Well, I am having trouble describing it as anything other than a thing. You are probably assuming that is because I am vague, and yes, I am all about the vague, but this is more because my keen powers of description are more tuned into things like the Robot Apocaplypse and the way arms look when they are forcibly removed from the body and not so much the way things occur within my brain. After all, my brain is a place of mystery.

So when I have these "things," I am supposed to call/text Therapist if I can't handle it on my own. (Translation: If I have tried to use DBT skills unsuccessfully, I should contact her.) She will coach me through it, and if that is unsuccessful, I can take a PRN (a med to push me through). Does this all sound rather complicated? It's not, really, but I suppose it does make me sound rather crazy, doesn't it?

Whatever. Don't be an asshole.

So I tried to use some skills. I went for a walk, and I am going to go for another in a minute. (I will take a break from posting this ridiculous post that you will probably want to light on fire only you won't be able to because it's online and not actual paper and aren't you glad you don't pay to read this shit?), but the walk didn't help the last time, and I don't have a lot of faith that it's going to help right now, and I am pretty sure that I am defective in some way and that the philosophical issues that I have with DBT are fucking me over and I am never going to get this right, so I am just going to be getting into these "things" over and over and over and over until it gets to be too much for whoever has to deal with me. Namely, Therapist.

Live-blogging moments are strange. I am going for a walk now. I will be back momentarily. We'll see if I have succeeded at being mindful. Walking around the block with a cigarette, kiddos.

Okay, I'm back. It didn't go totally horribly. Like I managed to be more mindful than I usually am, but I have to say that I am not feeling really any better than I was when I started this whole process and all the vague shit that I was alluding to up top is still really present, and now I just feel even more connected to my body in addition to it, and I hate that feeling, and maybe the result is that I actually feel worse, and I am only now starting to recognize that that is the result, and that sucks, and I am starting to hate myself and this post, but like I said, I am trying to document this, and I am starting to hate DBT, and I want to drop out of therapy really badly in this moment, and.... Oh, Therapist is text messaging.

Isn't live-blogging fun? (No, it's just weird.)

So apparently, putting your hand on your chest and repeating this to yourself in your head will make you cry at your desk: "I am enough. I am okay." Yeah, not fun. I had to go hide in the bathroom.

Okay, I stopped crying. So I tried again. And I just ended up chewing on the sides of my mouth. It made me feel uncomfortable. Why am I so fucking resistant? What is wrong with me? I really, really suck at DBT, y'all.

CHILDHOOD STORY THAT FUNCTIONS AS AN ASIDE TO ILLUSTRATE MY POINT: When I was in fourth grade, they let us join the band. I was really eager to play the drums--like I thought it would be the coolest thing in the world to be the female Lars Ulrich. (Hey, I was in fourth grade, and I had no idea that there were scads of awesome female drummers.) So I signed up, and I went to the introductory thingy where they let us all try out all these instruments so that we could decide what we wanted to play. Well, I knew I wanted to be a drummer, but that didn't mean I didn't want to fuck around with all these intruments just for fun. I ended up getting a big kick out of the mouthpieces for the brass instruments and all that buzz buzz jazz.

When the whole introductory session came to an end, we were supposed to have been standing next to the instrument of our choosing. I was so focused on playing with the mouthpiece to a trumpet, that I never managed to move on to the drums, so the band director marked me down for the trumpet. Oh, no! I was forever stuck playing the trumpet! In reality, I could have told him that I wanted to play the drums instead, but I was timid around new adult male strangers, and I was afraid to, so I was stuck playing the damn trumpet, and I never got to become the amazing drummer I know I would one day have been. You know that guy in Tool? Yeah, I so would have been him.

AnyMegWhite, I ended up playing the trumpet, and I was the worst trumpet player in the history of history. I mean, I sucked. No one has ever been as bad at anything as I was at this. Well, no one except for the girl who sat next to me. Shit, she was bad. I was second to last chair, dudes, and she was last. So you know we were bad.

AnyTomWaits, I am as bad at DBT as I was at playing the trumpet, so you can imagine how this is crushing my soul. It is making me want to punch a baby. Okay, I hate kids, and you know I hate kids, so maybe that is not the best exemplification. Hmm... here's one. It makes me want to light a kitten's face on fire. Yeah, that one will do. I want to light the above kitten on fire.

And on that note. Good night. It's now 5:50pm.

Today I Am

2010-05-05T09:59:00.002-04:00

An Update on the Goings-On in the Head Dept.

2010-05-04T17:40:00.001-04:00

I took a break today, and I had decided not to call myself a chicken. It's weird, though, because I am pretty sure I am giving myself an easier time right now than Therapist is, and that just seems backwards. Like I'm going to leave work tonight, and I'll notice that the sky is the color of concrete and the sidewalk is all blue, and then I'll turn upside down and be walking on the concrete sky and... well... um... shit's confusing. You see, the last time I "chickened out" Therapist said that I should re-frame my thinking and decide that I didn't discuss "really bad thing" because I knew I couldn't tolerate it, but today she says that her not pushing me to go there compounds the belief that trauma work is intolerable. NEWSFLASH, Therapist, I oftentimes do find trauma work intolerable.

(SIDE NOTE: Therapist is the "go thereiest" person in the history of history--even more so than anyone who ever starred on Degrassi: The Next Generation. SIDE NOTE OVER.)

Do you see how that might confuse a girl?

And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Well, hey now, isn't that all a part of dialectics? To accept two potentially opposing ideals?" Yes, yes, it is. (Actually, come to think of it, you may not have been thinking that, but you are now, so way to go me for imposing such thoughts on you! I rule! not really.) But getting the hang of accepting two opposing ideals is damned fucking hard, kiddies. It's sort of like when I came to terms with the fact that I have mad passion for peanut butter, but I loathe peanuts. It took me years. Years, I tell ya! And right now, I just don't think I have years to spare.

So where do I stand? Shit, I just don't know. Am I chicken? Or am I taking a needed break? Because I have to say that right now all that rage I get so focused with? Well, it's targeted at Therapist. Man, I am so pissed off at her right now. In fact, when I think of it I make a face something like this, and then things get really weird, and I realize that I am not, in fact, an angry panda, which ends up being a bummer because my rage would be much more recognized if I were an angry panda. Let's face it, who doesn't recognize panda-rage?

I don't much like dealing with rage. I just like to let it fester. Rage tends to make me feel guilty, like I have something to feel ashamed of. In truth, Therapist has done nothing wrong. She's gotten me further (yes, further--farther is used to reference to actual distance--I am a grammar nerd) than anyone else ever has, and as much of me is grateful as is angry. In even more truth, I think a lot of this anger comes from the fact that I have let this become something that she is doing to me, which is ridiculous. She's not doing anything to me. I signed on for this, but I keep repeating this sentence in my head: "Why won't she let me stop?" So that's got to mean something, right?

In any case, I told her I would be good on Friday.

In defense of my laziness and chicken-shit attitude today, we did discuss trust and why I don't have it with her. And I don't know how to discuss this, really. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Do I just decide to trust her? Does that work? Because I have to say, I really don't think it will. Someone told me today to just take a leap of faith, which I guess makes sense, but I feel like I've been doing that, and you know, it's not like I have dropped out of therapy or something. I just took the fucking day off. People are acting like I just quit my life.

Shit! This isn't like when I quit the Catholic Church, y'all! HAVE SOME PERSPECTIVE!

(B-t-dubbs, that was totally the best decision in the history of history. While I am super happy to have been raised Catholic because Catholicism is really creepy and made me love The Exorcist even more, I am really glad that I don't actually believe any of that shit.)

AnyEstelleGetty, I have this problem with mindfulness. In being mindful, you are supposed to be connected to your body, like notice it, be aware of it, feel it. There has never been anything (except Prolonged Exposure) that I have wanted to do less than that. I am so resistant to it that I have trouble even considering it, let alone actually doing it. And today she said that I should tell her when I have problems with the dialectics of this therapy, so I said it, and it felt like it wasn't so much a discussion as a command. I know there was more to it than this, but this is what I remember:

"It's not optional."

I think there was also something in there about one of the reasons I don't like being in my body is because I feel so disconnected from it and some such shit, and yes, right now I am using the word shit because it feels like bullshit to me, but I'm working on it, so get off my back. It just doesn't make sense to me. And this whole notion of "radical acceptance," well, it just feels too fucking radical to me right now.

So Angry Panda Missy Says:
Fuck Mindfulness
Fuck Prolonged Exposure

Good Night, Gracie.

What I Am

2010-05-04T16:47:00.000-04:00

A giant nerd.

Toys and the War on Drugs

2010-05-04T11:47:00.009-04:00

A while ago I bought the most amazing thing in the history of history. You can see it pictured above. Yeah, you know you want it. If I hadn't bought it for myself, it would have been the first featured item in the I WANT series, but I did buy it, and now it sits on my desk at work glowering down ready shower everyone who pisses me off with alien saliva. Don't fuck with it, folks, if you hurt it, it will bleed its blood all over you and burn a hole clean through your finger. And that will be fucking radtastic.

So I've been thinking, why is it that I am (count them) 28 years old, and I am very much still into buying toys? Like, for serious, when I found this site, I was pretty sure I would sell my actual vagina to a tranny for use to get my hands on all of these. Who the hell does not want to own dolls of the fucking Golden Girls? (See, I don't even recognize the fact that there are people in the world who might answer that question by saying "I don't.")

I feel like a kid today. And I want to buy a lot of toys.

I also want to go home and play Castlevania. Do you remember how fucking hard it was to beat Dracula? Seriously, do you? Fuck me, that shit was hard! For some reason now that I am older, I don't have the patience for this game anymore, and now when I sit down to play it, when I get to Dracula if I don't beat him in the first couple hours of playing, I get pissed off and put the Wii remote back on the charger and go to bed. I'm all "Fuck you, Dracula. Eat me." But when I was kid, I would stay up for two fucking days straight playing this shit.

Oh. Oh. Oh. Here is an important question: why isn't Maniac Mansion available for download on the Wii yet? I loved this game so much when I was little that when I talk about bullshit that doesn't matter in therapy, which I so rarely get to do, I will bring it up and mention how much I loved it and how I can't remember what it was you had to put in the microwave and that I want to play the game so bad just so I can remember what the fuck you had to put in the goddamned microwave. Do any of you remember? Wait, don't tell me. I want to figure it out when I play the game again.

Oh, I love my Nintendo games.

Sometime last year I downloaded Excitebike onto the Wii. (I have to side note right now that Firefox did not tell me that Excitebike was misspelled, and that, my friends, is fucking magical. Firefox has its fucking priorities fucking straight.) As a child, I fucking loved this game. I thought it was so rad, and I was the best of all my cousins. We would sit in the CB room at my grandma's house, and I would kick everyone's ass at it. And I felt amazing. But dudes, this game does not hold up. You can play it for like fifteen minutes before it gets super boring.

Sorry Excitebike. You got the lame.

However, Dr. Mario is still so addictive that I think I could give up crack or heroin for it--like, you know, if I was addicted to crack or heroin. I'm pretty sure they should put Nintendos with Dr. Mario cartridges in every methadone clinic. Think about it. No, really, think about it. Can't you just see all these former smack addicts sitting around not worrying about smack because they are playing Dr. Mario.

Though, one can probably also imagine a scenario in which two smack addicts are playing and one junkie sends two pills into another junkies frame and that junkie punches the other junkie in the face and a violent altercation ensues.

So maybe Dr. Mario isn't the solution to the war on drugs.

In other news: my meds make my feet, hands, and face tingle. I hate it.

EDITED TO ADD: Dr. Mario is totally better than Tetris. Don't be a hater. You know it's true.

"Rainy Days and Mondays Always Get Me Down"

2010-05-03T10:34:00.003-04:00

For some reason, every single Monday seems to be fucking rainy. What the fuck is going on? How is it that every goddamned Monday needs to be like this? All I want to do on a Monday is have a steady work-flow and walk to my group from work. Why is this so much to ask? Huh? Instead I am wearing a sweatshirt, smelling like a wet ashtray, shivering with damp socks, and sitting uncomfortably in an office chair with no real work to do. This fucking sucks.

'Nuff bitchin' (for the moment).

Take a look at that photo up top. Doesn't Karen look pissed off? Yeah, she does. That's kind of how I look right now. I mean, I look like I've been sitting in an airport waiting for a flight that's been delayed for hours. I'm just that kind of bitchy. Why am I that kind of bitchy? Well, I haven't got a really good reason, to be honest. I mean, the subway was delayed this morning for reasons that they never really give you, and I am all wet, but this is nothing too out of the ordinary, right? So let's try to figure this out.

Potential reasons for my extreme bitchiness:

1) train delays
2) wet ashtray smell
3) desire for a cigarette
4) desire for red velvet cake
5) rain
6) group
7) slow work day
8) Nightmare on Elm Street remake
9) my fucking hair

So if we go through these one by one, what do we get? I have no control over train delays or rain, right? So we can cross those off the list. And that wet ashtray smell, well, I'll just have to live with it.

Oh... gods....

Who am I kidding?

I am bitchy because that's who I am.

And because I witnessed a big giant fail last night.

Shit is just too fucking hard sometimes.

Maybe I'll give you something worth reading later.

And Missy Was Shock

2010-04-30T15:06:00.010-04:00

Did you know that there are people on the planet of Earth who do not think that John Carpenter is the master of all that is rad? I know, I know. When I heard this, I nearly peed my pants in rage and shock. I thought to myself, "Why these people, they must know very little. They must be unaware. They must have never seen Halloween. They must have never seen Big Trouble in Little China or The Thing or, Heaven help us all, The Fog. And what a shame this must be for all of them."

Today I took a trip via this here interweb thingy to my most favoritest site, Final Girl, for Awesome Movie Poster Friday, and lo and behold, she had chosen to make it the John Carpenter edition. I very much encourage you all to partake in the lookage, my friends. The posters are magnificent. The man is magnificent. The movies are magnificent. And let's just talk about why.

I saw Halloween for the first time when I was six years old. I have written about this experience numerous times in my life, so I won't recount it too dramatically here, but I will say that it forever--and I DO MEAN FOREVER--changed the way I would view films. I had never known terror outside of the Red Bull in The Last Unicorn, and I am ten thousand percent sure that I have never found anything quite so dreadful (in the most positive sense) before or since (that was not actually dangerous, I mean). Because this man was my introduction to something that would grow into an obsession, it has become time yet again for a listing, my loves. Take note! These are the top eight reasons you should all love John muthafuckin' Carpenter as much as I do. (Yes, eight, I like to do shit weird-like.)

8. Jamie Lee Curtis

John Carpenter is responsible for giving us the ultimate final girl. In all of my slasher-lovin' life, I have never, NEVER EVER, come across a final girl quite like Laurie Strode, and I have never loved an actress who portrayed her quite like Jamie Lee Curtis. Jamie went on to portray countless other final girls and become a bonafide scream queen. Any horror fan worth her salt has to have a place in her heart for Jamie Lee. While some of her choices (I'm looking at you, Prom Night, and your disco dance sequence) might not have been the best, she was always in a class of her own.

7. Big Trouble in Little China

If you haven't yet seen a bumbling Kurt Russell fighting supernatural Chinese dudes, you are really missing out. This is a film that masquerades as a good time antidote to the big-budget of Raiders of the Lost Ark (which, yes, I also love) but really has a subtext that's super heavy. Think about it like this, who is really the hero of this movie? Who gets the girl? Way to slip in those smarts, John. I just love it when you give us your point in a big fun package.

6. The Thing

Another Kurt Russell good time. This is one of the greatest remakes of all time (rivaling even Cronenberg's The Fly). Carpenter uses the climate to maximum effect in this flick that pits everyone against each other. It's a story that's tired in other people's hands, but Carpenter knows how to let a story unfold slowly, and he takes you along easily. He's a slow burner this one. And man, oh man, when they put that needle into Windows's blood, I get so fuckin' anxious even though I know what's going to happen. Oh, it's tense. And I just can't take it.

5. Adrienne Barbeau

Go here. 'Nuff said.

4. Escape From New York

As I have said on more than one occasion, I love this move possibly more than it deserves to be loved. On the one hand, it's a postapocalyptic masterpiece. On another, it's messy in places. On yet another, people put chandeliers on the OUTSIDES of their cars. On still another hand, it stars Adrienne Barbeau and Harry Dean Stanton as lovers. (That's a lot of hands.)

3. The Fog

I feel like the appropriate paragraph here should just say "Err... duh." So, yeah. Err... duh. Fucking pirate ghosts, dude. Pirate ghosts.

2. Michael Myers

How can we not love the man who gave us the scariest boogeyman in this history of film? If you doubt that he is the scariest, then I don't love you anymore, and you should click away from this page. (Okay, I probably still love you, but we can't be married.)

1. Halloween

Duh.

EDITED TO ADD: This is resulting in an email fight between me and a co-worker. Hehe. This is what Friday afternoons at a children's book publisher are like. For the record, I am always right, and everyone else is always wrong. That is the life of a blogess.

EDITED TO ADD AGAIN: For more Carpenter joy go the wonderful site The Vault of Horror for his John Carpenter edition of the regular series Trailer Trash. Iz a good time.

Fuck Fridays

2010-04-30T11:55:00.000-04:00

Well, this morning was not a resounding success.

I awoke to panic at four o'clock in the morning. The very fact that four o'clock in the morning even exists is something that brings rage pains behind my eyes, so I am--at this very moment--barely able to type. "It-it- the f - it -flam - flames. Flames, on the side of my face, breathing-breathl- heaving breaths. Heaving breath..." I chose to watch Psycho. This may seem like a strange choice to some, but those of you who know me, and many of you do, know that I am in Hitchcock mode right now, so it is not all that surprising. I fell back asleep sometime after Arbogast arrived at the Bates Motel, and the alarm awakened me again at 6am sometime after Marion's sister and boyfriend arrived at the Bates Motel.

I fucking hate this day with the fire of a thousand suns.

I carried this rage to the A train today. I felt like doing something different. I don't know. Shake up the routine and whatnot. My mind has been trapped inside a spiral lately, and Therapist suggested that I change some of my habits the other day via text, so I thought I would start the day that way, but as I was sitting on the subway listening to Loretta Lynn (she's "Rated 'X'"), I just got angrier and angrier.

And I hate to do this to you, readers, but my anger, it just ain't very funny. It's visual, and it's pointed, but it ain't funny. So you can skip this one if you like.

Today Therapist said that I am probably angry at her, and I don't know if I nodded or not, but I should have because I am, and I feel completely guilty about this. It's not really fair. She said that it's understandable and that she doesn't take it personally. And that's great and all, but it's not really understandable. She hasn't done anything wrong. But here I am sitting here thinking "Oh, seriously, if she says 'unpack it' I am going to fucking walk out this door and come back with a chair from the waiting room and chuck through the fucking window." Yeah, it's so going down like that. Of course, it didn't go down like that. Instead I just told her that I fucking couldn't stand that phrase and I never wanted to hear it again.

What really matters here is that I am making all this anger about the fucking phrase "unpack it," and that shit could not matter any less if it was six years old and had blond ringlets. I am angry about the fact that she is in possession of this story. I am angry about the fact that I am being forced to tell this shit. (Yes, I recognize that she is not forcing me to do anything, but part of my anger is that I feel sometimes like this is forced upon me.) I am angry that this is something that is happening at all.

Most of all, I am angry that words were stitched inside my mouth today. I am angry that I am worse at telling this story than I am at ballroom dancing (and that, my friends, is tragically fucking bad). I am angry that I feel like I am working my goddamn ass off, and I am getting nowhere.

Fuck Fridays, for serious.

In other news, I am sick, and I want to go home.

Things That Make Me Angry

2010-04-30T11:08:00.003-04:00

I might be giving in.

This is a test:

This is my favorite blog

EDITED TO ADD: The fact that I can now do this means that I am probably going to go crazy with it. I am going to make you click like crazy. Get ready fuckers. You are going to be clicking like you just found the world's greatest porn site! For instance, go here to read about the two movies I watched this weekend. Oh, I am going to be mad with power. Mad, I tells ya.

Things That Make Me Angry

2010-04-29T17:46:00.003-04:00

Seriously, I think if I hear the phrase "unpack it" ever again, my fucking head is going to rocket off into space and never ever come home again. I'm not fucking kidding. If it does come back, it will have "pew pew" laser guns attached, and it will shoot anyone who ever fucking says "unpack it" to me. I am not fucking kidding.

Things That Make Me Happy

2010-04-29T16:58:00.002-04:00

Lawd, love a lesbian vampire

The Weekly Reel

2010-04-29T12:48:00.006-04:00

Since my Tuesday triumph, I've had a weird week. (Yes, I know it's only Thursday.) The whole idea of this Prolonged Exposure is that it will make things better. But there are "no quick fixes"--as was expressed to me via text message yesterday by Therapist. So things aren't that simple in the interim. And he lives in my brain right now, and I can't shut him up. Well, he's not exactly talking. It's more like he's doing, and she's talking. Or really, she's talking and then he's doing. Ah, shyat. Fuck it. It goes something like this:

I'm standing over my kitchen sink yesterday morning, and I'm wearing my super badass Faster Pussycat Kill Kill* tee shirt, and I am eating 3/4 cup of Honey Nut Cheerios with 1/2 cup of light vanilla soymilk. And I hear her ask me something. The need to be vague forces me to keep it from these (cyber)pages. And then the answer to that question immediately enters my mind, and I can actually feel it--like physically. I can feel it. I am sure reading this blog would be a much more visceral experience if I could tell you right now, but I don't feel very much like exploiting myself in the service of that, so deal. Here's the best I can do, after the feeling of it actually happening goes away, which takes some time, then it's like falling. It's this fear, this dread, that lives in your stomach, and it's like falling.

And it sucks. (And if that isn't more of an understatement than "I like movies about fire-farting cockroaches," then I don't know what is.)

It would be okay if this went away, or it would be okay if it was just the falling. But the falling gives way to a new question and a new answer and a whole new memory that completely takes over the body and then the falling comes back, and this whole experience completely overwhelms you again and again and again.

(SIDE NOTE: As a writer, I can't help but notice that I shifted points-of-view there. If I were editing this later, I would change it. I would make it consistent, but do you see it? I went from intimate first-person to distant second-person. I couldn't maintain it. I don't think it's a writing weakness. I think it's a personal fear. I think I couldn't tolerate staying so close to yesterday's experience. SIDE NOTE OVER.)

To be more specific (sort of... I'm still not willing to exploit myself and my experience), yesterday morning I had to see Doctor (that is how I will refer to the psychiatrist). So I had to get up at 6am. I was eating my Cheerios really early, and all of this started really early. And I was really distracted while I was talking to him, and I was really bothered by these very intrusive thoughts, and I think that is why he could convince me to try a new medication that seems like it might be a miracle. (No, seriously, it turns out there is a thing like Hypnocil.) And when he left the room to get me samples, I texted Therapist to tell her I was coming apart ("Mother of God! I'm coming apart!" Okay, it wasn't like that at all), and she asked me, unsurprisingly, what I was feeling, and I told her fear, and she asked me where it was in my body, and I told her my stomach, and she asked if it was like nausea, and I said that it was like falling, and she told me to make my subway ride different, and I should ride in a different car, and I should do a crossword, and not listen to music, and observe other people, and all that mindfulness jazz, and just give something else all my attention, right?

Well, I failed so miserably at doing this that I feel like I just flunked a test. I tried, but my mind kept being interrupted be these questions and the subsequent memories. I tried to get back on track, but eventually, I gave up. I allowed them to take control, and by the time I arrived at my office, I was completely overwhelmed again.

Then I was sitting at my desk in the afternoon, and my lungs started to feel like they were rotting out of my body (I have a chest cold; I am not a zombie; though, that would be cool), and I was still be held under by memories and this falling feeling. And I thought, "I needn't take any more of this." And I got up, and I told Boss Woman that I was sick, and I was leaving early, and I was going to be back in the morning. I was sick. And I did feel bad. But I didn't leave for this reason. (To be truthful, I feel physically much worse today than I did yesterday.) I needed to be in a place that felt safer for these kinds of things to happen. I needed to know that I was home. I was with my dog. I was in a place filled with things that are familiar and comfortable.

And so I cried on the subway headed home.

When I stumbled into bed, I found myself able to focus on Argento's The Card Player. It was so Argento that I could hardly believe it. It was so Argento that I was predicting it all the way through. I am sure I drove Best Friend crazy. And then it was time for The Fog. (You all know what that did to me.) And I fell asleep early watching The Birds--because I couldn't imagine my evening any other way.

But then this morning, I was leaning out my window smoking a cigarette, and it happened again. I could hear her say, "And then he.....?" And then I saw him do just that. And I felt him. And I stumbled a little, and I had to catch myself before I fell from the window.

These ruminations are growing exhausting. They seem to be a battle I can't really win. I can't find a trigger for them. (Unless waking up is a trigger, then there really isn't one.) I can't make them stop. As hard as I try, all I really seem to do is fuck up over and over, so I am growing more and more dismayed at this whole process. I know I have supposedly made it through the hardest part, but having gone through that hardest part has made the other parts of everything really, really difficult to get through.

It turns out honesty is sometimes depressing. You asked for it.**

*I can neither confirm nor deny that I was wearing this shirt at the time.

**You asked for nothing of the kind.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
Loretta Lynn -- Van Lear Rose

An Ode to an Armenian

2010-04-29T10:09:00.009-04:00

Last night I was watching a little somethin'-somethin' we cool kids like to call The muthafuckin' Fog, and I got to thinking about some things.

Before I get down to business, I would just like to be absolutely clear. I am a die-hard, psychotic, fucking-freak-of-nature, will-go-to-the-mattresses fan of The Fog. When I saw this movie when I was a kid (I must have been about eight years old), it scared the living shit out of me, and I still get the heebie jeebies when Mrs. Kobritz (oh, poor old Mrs. Kobritz) disappears into the fog in the night. I fucking love this movie so hard that any denial of its greatness could result in a violent reprisal from me. This is a warning to you. Be fucking careful when you approach this topic. I'm just sayin'.

But really, I mean, why would you not love this movie? Let's think about it: in front of the camera you have Adrienne Barbeau (who will be the topic of our post for today), Jamie Lee Curtis, Tom Atkins, Hal Holbrook, Janet Leigh, Nancy Loomis, and Charles Cyphers, and behind the camera you have the amazing Debra Hill and John Carpenter. What's not to love? Really? Why don't you love it? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?

(For fuck's sake, this is a child's dream come true! It's an episode of Scooby-Do made scary! Fucking pirate ghosts, dude. Pirate ghosts.)

As I was watching The Fog for the 9000th time yesterday, I came to realize that I kind of always want to watch it. Like if someone is at my house, and they are going through the 600ish DVDs I have and they say, "Hey, what's The Fog?" Well, first I would slap the shit out of them, and then I would be like, "Oh, we so have to watch that. It's amazing." And if that happened twice a week, well, I'd be more than okay with that. I mean, I wouldn't mind watching The Fog twice a week at all. You dig? And then I got to thinkin', why the hell do I want to watch The Fog so much? Despite the fact that the movie is totally awesome, and I do love it so hard I want to have its babies, there are moments in the movie that I look forward to ("6 MUST DIE," anyone?), and most of those moments feature someone in particular.

Yes. Adrienne Barbeau.

Last night I asked Best Friend who was sometimes-snoring, sometimes-viewing The Fog with me whether or not he thought my love for Ms. Barbeau was disproportionate, and he said he thought it might be. I'm still thinking this through. You see, whenever I see her on screen, I start to feel a swelling in my chest. I'm like The Grinch 6 days out of 7, but on that 7th day when I see Adrienne Barbeau my little old heart just grows like you would not believe. Seeing her face just makes me so damned happy. In order to fully understand whether or not my intense love for her is actually warranted I have compiled a list of 5 reasons to love her. We'll see how this pans out. Ready? Here we go:

5. Escape From New York (1981)

Barbeau's turn as Maggie in Escape From New York was one of the first times I ever saw her on film, and it is a personal experience for me. This John Carpenter film is, to my mind, a true post-apocalyptic masterpiece, and I love it so, so hard. It was filmed, not in New York, but in Saint Louis, and Maggie bites it on the Martin Luther King bridge (my favorite bridge in my home city, natch). This one just holds me, dudes. Me and my pops used to watch it all the time.

4. The Convent (2000)

The Convent is quite possibly one of my most favoritest of Barbeau's roles. She is at her coolest in this movie. She just blows me away as Christine, the bad girl who took matters into her own hands. When the stupid teenager who sets the day-glo zombie nuns loose comes a-knockin', Christine gets her shotgun, her motorcycle, her leather, and her smokes, and heads out to out blow them all way. Witness this dialogue: "Every 5 years or so you stupid kids think it would be great fun to break into the convent and see where it all happened. Then, when all Hell breaks loose, you come looking for the chick who started it. Well, fuck that noise." Yeah, that's what I thought.

3. Carnivale (2003-2005)

Carnivale is, without a doubt, the most ambitious television series I have ever seen in my entire life. Barbeau's role as Ruthie the Snake Charmer was easily my favorite. While she was not one of the central characters on the show, she left an impression that was hard to ignore, and she became, to me, ultimately very endearing and very heartbreaking at the same time, as she revealed that she felt she had little to offer to people except her body. In a show about good vs. evil and the Dust Bowl and nuclear war and faith and fortune, Barbeau was a welcome discussion of the roles women were forced to play in such a dry and desolate place.

2. Creepshow (1982)

Duh. I mean, come on, duh. "Just call me Billie" is one of the best lines ever in the history of horror. IN THE HISTORY OF HISTORY. I feel a little bit like, well, if you don't like Creepshow, you don't like being alive. Creepshow is the best time ever, and I'd like to say that "The Crate" is the best segment, but I can't do that. Really, this anthology film is so solid that every single segment is a joy to behold. But watching her alongside Hal Holbrook is an absolute blast, and I guaran-damn-tee you that you will not regret this as an evening's entertainment.

1. The Fog (1980)

Of course, right? I mean, what are we doing here after all? Stevie Wayne was the slutty Delilah of her day. She is trying to get someone to save her son while she stays in that lighthouse to try and save everyone else. Look at how she sacrifices! LOOK AT THAT! She is no stereotype mother! She's the muthafuckin' bomb! She's got that big fluffy hair, those plaid shirts, that red sweater, those mad sexy camel leather boots. But most importantly, she's got driftwood that can light itself on fire. (Oh, and a Volkswagen Thing and her own radio station like Clairee Belcher.)

Things That Make Me Happy/I Want

2010-04-28T09:34:00.005-04:00

Well, if it isn't time for a little A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors. I love you so much more than you deserve to be loved, NOES3.

A Little Bit of This and a Little Bit of That

2010-04-27T17:56:00.003-04:00

So in this whole Dialectical Behavior Therapy experiment I be participatin' in, I have to sort of track me emotions. And then I get me Lucky Charms. (Yeah, that wasn't even close to funny. Whatever funny actually is is not even in the same plane of existence as that joke, but it's here now, so I have to document it. Deal, fuckers.) I not only have to track my emotions, but I also have to track my negative impulses. (Why I can't track positive impulses I don't know. I mean, why doesn't Therapist want to know every time I have the desire to watch cockroaches fart fire? That's pretty fucking positive if you ask me.) The cards look something like the one pictured above. Well, not mine, really. Therapist made one specific to me, but oftentimes they look just like this one up here, and I suppose that will do for our discussions because, as I said, I am all about the vague when it comes down to this whole process.

AnyThelmaHarper, I bring this up because it's a difficult thing, filling these out. I mean, how often do you find that you are feeling the same shit all day? I know that my version of emotion and the standard version are somewhat different, as I actually experience emotion dysregulation, but come on, no one feels the same all day. (Seriously, it sometimes takes me a half hour to fill this shit out at the end of the day.)

The reason I bring this up (again... blah blah blah) is that I was feeling one thing earlier today, and now I am feeling something quite different. Remember how I told you that I was feeling all ten kinds of brave for the super mad scary hard thing I accomplished? Well, that part of me is fading a bit. Emotions are like spices in my favorite Indian foods, not every flavor makes it into every bite, y'all. I don't know.... That sense of accomplishment is fading into a sort of sadness that I don't think I fully understand. "Unpack it," Therapist would say (she says this a lot). (Sometimes I treat therapy like watching a horror movie, and I predict the shit out of it.) I don't know why Therapist hasn't yet caught that I fucking suck at doing that.

So instead of doing that important work, I think I will just annoyingly focus on the secondary emotions. Not only do I have this sadness, which is, I think, my primary emotion, but I feel all four hundred kinds of nervous about the fact that someone else is in possession of my story. It's like I just gave up copyright or something, like someone else has control of my "really bad thing." What do I expect she's going to do with it? Do I think she'll judge it? Do I want her to? That's the question that sticks in my mind. And if I do, who is it that I want her to hate? Me? Or him?

(You see how I have all these questions, but I have no answers? Doesn't that just annoy the shit out of you?)

So it seems I have some kind of control issue when it comes to this story. And I guess, when it comes down to it, that's not all that surprising, right? I mean, I have some sort of ownership of this, and I kept this from my family for fear, partially, that my mother would take ownership and make it hers by saying something like "How could someone do something like this to my baby?" You have no idea how much I dreaded hearing those words come out of her mouth, and you have no idea how grateful I was when she did exactly as I'd asked and said nothing when I finally told her fifteen years later.

Sheesh. This is going nowhere. But I promised to diligently document this business. So here it is. Isn't this better than that silly sheet up above?

I mean, come on, the card asks you, "Did you think about suicide today?" Well, duh, of course I did. I sit at a desk for eight hours with pictures of Virginia Woolf, Anne Sexton, and Sylvia Plath beside me. How does one avoid such a thing as they live a meaningless life in a meaningless cubicle beside three minds that did so much better?

Fuck, I'm getting maudlin. Thank the gods it's almost quittin' time.

Speaking of the gods, in case you've been wondering why this little atheist is consistently referring to the gods, well, I am only referring to those that guided the humans on Battlestar Galactica.

So say we all.

Brave Little Soldier

2010-04-27T13:01:00.010-04:00

Yesterday I started to write a blog about my weekend that was going to be all about my wagon-falling-off-ness. I felt like shit. I took too many Seroquel (b-t-dubbs, I should tell you that Seroquel is fucking amazing, and I should probably love it a little less than I do, and if it weren't so expensive, I am pretty sure I would be a complete junkie right now), and I ate like eating was going out of style. And I was generally a complete fuck-up, which is a state with which I am both familiar and comfortable.

Anyway, as you can imagine, it was a seriously depressing blog post. And it was probably going to have one of those parentheticals in the title that I love so much. You know the ones. The ones that include some variation of the word fire. This post is sitting the drafts section of my unpublished posts, so maybe one day when I fall off all those wagons again--as is bound to happen--I will actually post it, but for now I have other concerns.

Okay, so you remember when I told you that "really bad thing" happened, and I was working on it with Therapist, and it's all hard and shit?

(SIDE NOTE: I find it really difficult to be specific about this process, so I apologize in advance for that. I had thought that it might be useful to readers to follow along in this--even though I am a little vague--to see how it works. And that's why I have chosen to document this whole thing, but I realize now that it might not actually help anyone because my honesty is shrouded in vagueness. But I can really only be expected to do so much, right? I mean, fuck dudes, I'm not a therapist. I'm a writer. I'm just trying to have some journalistic integrity and some fucking privacy at the same time. Sheesh. Get off my back. Whoa. I got defensive at the end there. I suck major. I am a big lame. SIDE NOTE OVER.)

AnySophiaPetrillo, I felt bad about Friday. (Remember when I posted that whole Bluth and me being a chicken blog?) So I decided that I was totally going to man up. (Yeah, I recognize that that's kind of sexist, but there's something I have always really liked about the phrase "man up," so I use it anyway. I live life on the edge.) I was like, "Oh, I am so going in there, and shit is just going to fly out of my mouth, and it's going to be like Therapist couldn't shut me up if her life depended on it, and you know what? Yeah, her life is going to depend on it because the Robot Apocalypse is coming, and they are going to be all like 'You have to make her stop talking or we are going to shoot you with our "pew pew" laser guns.' But she still won't be able to get me to shut up because I am going to be that fucking loquacious, but they won't shoot her with their 'pew pew' laser guns because that would so not be cool. Instead what will happen is they'll get bored with waiting, and they'll realize that I am so not important and that I don't own an iPod, and they'll go make their 'pew pew' noises someplace else and go blow up Trump Tower or something and make us all happy." Yeah, it was going to be just like that.

But it so wasn't. It was more like this.

I was supposed to go to group last night. This is laborious for me. I always find myself spending all day trying to convince myself to go to group. You see, whenever I go, I always end up feeling like one of three things:

1) a remedial student
2) a judgmental bitch
3) a clown

Of these three options, I would most like to feel like a clown. Let's face it, most of the time, I am trying for this prize. I joke around like it's nobody's business. I just turned a little bit of Prolonged Exposure into a joke about the Robot Apocalypose (oh, it's coming). But in session, shit ain't funny. So I think, maybe, in group, this is not so good, you know?

I hate hate hate with the fire of a thousand suns feeling like a remedial student. But everyone in the group is better at this DBT shit than I am. And that is just disheartening. Okay, I am going to make an asshole statement right now, so you better just prepare yourself. I am so used to being good at shit. Like, dude, I am good at school. I feel like I pretty much slept through my master's degree. And the fact that this whole DBT thing feels like a class and ends up being ultimately kind of hard makes me feel like dookie, and that shit blows.

And really, who wants to feel like a judgmental bitch?

So I spend most of the day convincing myself to go, which, inevitably, I do.

So at the end of this long battle within my brain, I received a text message from Therapist informing me that every single person in my group had cancelled except for me. Impressive. She also asked if I would like to do a one-on-one session. To this I replied, "Um... sure?" And so it was that I was unable to prepare myself mentally for an evening of PE.

I arrived in Midtown at 6:45pm, and I smelled like a wet ashtray. Things were starting out just lovely, don't you think? I always like to go into a space feeling as vulnerable as I can. I mean, what better way to begin a session with Therapist than feeling like you stink as badly as you can? I mean, I know Therapist knows that I smoke, but you know she doesn't want me stinking up her office with my wet ashtray smell.

But none of this matters. When I sat down we had the traditional gettin' to business bullshit before diving on in. And dive I did. But words did not shoot out of my mouth like they were on fire. In fact, it seemed like they were sewn into the sides of my mouth and I had to forcibly remove them. It seemed--almost--like all I really did was hold my ears and pull my hair and shake my head yes or no a whole bunch of times. And again, I had to stop. This is the tough thing for me, having to stop. I never want to. But I also want to all the time. But this time I just had to say "I can't." What I meant when I said that was quite literally, "I can't (make these words come out of my mouth)." But Therapist heard "I can't (continue)." I am beginning to think these two are interchangeable.

In the end, as Therapist repeated things to me, I realized that I had said so much more than I thought because a lot of "really bad thing" was out there before us. And I only had a small bit left to cover.

And I had another appointment in twelve hours.

So I went home, and I felt pretty much like I had all the times previous. You know what I'm talking about. I had that car crash feeling I mentioned. And I was breathing all funny-like. And I just wanted to watch a movie or something. So I went into Best Friend's room, and he was watching Logan's Run, and then he starting talking about some underwater movie, and he was mentioning Vincent Price directing someone around with the edge of a knife and how queeny that was (and doesn't that just sound totally awesome), so I had decided in that instant that what I needed was a healthy dose of zombie vs. shark, so I asked Best Friend if he wanted to watch Zombie with me, and I fell asleep sometime after the doctor's wife gets the shard to the eyeball. Ocular terror, my friends, ocular terror.

And then I woke up this morning to finish it all up. And finish it, I did. I managed to get it all out there--despite some confusion about what was really on the table and what wasn't. And it again felt like the words were stitched inside my mouth, and I needed scissors to cut them out. But it's out there now. It's in someone's hands besides mine. For the first time in the history of history someone besides me and him know exactly (well, not exactly because there is something I left out from the beginning that I'm holding onto for some reason that I need to figure out how to let go of) what happened when "really bad thing" occurred fifteen years ago.

So that's the whole point of my post. I'm a little proud of myself right now. I did it. I did something scary, so scary, in fact, that it has taken me fifteen years to do it. But now I've done it. I've much further to go, but I have a suspicion that this was the hardest part. And PHEW that's over.

Say Good Night, Gracie.

Things That Make Me Happy

2010-04-26T17:55:00.003-04:00

Seriously, what the fuck is happening with Nancy's shirt?

Things That Make Me Angry

2010-04-26T16:23:00.006-04:00

I know I shouldn't read internet forums. I know. I know! I KNOW! But you see, once a long time ago, someone said in some forum that they were going to make a live action version of The Last Unicorn (1982), and they said that they were using the same cast, and they posted all these pics of the preliminary art, and I was all excited, and since then I haven't been able to stop myself from checking these internet forums, which means that several times a week my head catches fire. Of course, I mean that literally. (No, I don't, you douchebag.)

Anywho, I am reading internet forums about how scary the preliminary art for the Red Bull is today ("the red bull ran close behind them..."), and I get linked to imdb, which is like the serious seedy recesses of internet message boarding. No, I am not kidding, y'all. If you legitimately want your head to catch fire spontaneously, then this is the place to go. And some doucher, SOME DOUCHER, decides that he is going to compare The Last Unicorn to Shakespeare and then compare Kill Bill to Saw. I seriously don't think I have a head anymore. Can someone please check?

There are so many things wrong with this that I cannot even fathom them all. I am beginning to feel an extreme pain between my eyes. I cannot tell if this pain tells of tears to come or a rage that is just waiting to spill forth.

Okay, okay, let's talk about what's really important: the implications of this comparison. Okay, we have to take this slowly. The first thing it implies is that The Last Unicorn is art. Okay, sure. This I will buy. Definitely. I fucking love The Last Unicorn so hard. It also implies that The Last Unicorn is art at a level so high as Shakespeare. This seems presumptuous, but as I am not a huge Shakespeare fan, I can't say it's fair for me to bitch about this too much. Then it goes on to... oh... gods... I might explode. It goes on to suggest that.... Kill Bill is not art. That. Is. Bullshit. That is so much bullshit that the bull got lost in all his shit. And you know how SOME DOUCHER goes about making this point? Huh? By suggesting that Kill Bill has ANYTHING in common with fucking Saw!

If this were not bad enough, the entire fucking post just smacks of "horror movies be bad, argh!" to it. And this, oh this, I just cannot abide. How dare any asshole who just happens to be a giant pansy who can't handle a little hillbilly horror or cannibal holocaust chicken shit out like this?!? Fuck you, asshole poster.

Goddamnit. I have to stop going on these forums.

For your reading pleasure I have copied and pasted the contents of his post:

Nudity, violence, swearing, and other such "objectionable" material shouldn't be the only reasons a film receives a rating. Shakespeare's works have plenty of violence, innuendo, swearing (albeit mostly archaic), and drunkeness, but a performance of "Hamlet" hardly deserves the same rating as "Saw" or "The Hills Have Eyes", or even "Kill Bill". Sure, they have the same "objectionable content", but the context of that content, and overall artistic qualities of the work as a whole, make it something actually good for children, not harmful. Another example: I saw nudity as a child in "Fantasia", "The Last Unicorn", and other shows, as well as in the Classical Greek and Renaissance artwork that saturated my upbringing. All of it was less harmful to me, mentally and spiritually, than an episode of "Friends".

EDITED TO ADD: I also think, based on what I have read from SOME DOUCHER throughout this thread, that he does not really understand The Last Unicorn. The themes of this film are actually quite adult. I mean, that harpy scene is mad adult, y'all. I'm not at all saying a kid shouldn't see it, but that is made for adults. And I sure as shit did not get that tree scene when I was little. Oh fuck no.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
Natalie Merchant -- Leave Your Sleep

Things That Make Me Angry

2010-04-23T17:49:00.003-04:00

I am absolutely convinced that the last fifteen minutes of any shift are scientifically longer than the rest of the day. Seriously, let's call Hollywood and get one of those Scienceologists they like to use for them thar disaster flicks they like (and hurt so good) and find this out.

Fuck me, why won't this goddamned day end.

Things That Make Me Happy

2010-04-23T15:40:00.003-04:00

Night of the Lepus is coming to my house. Do you even KNOW what that means? It means that this weekend I will not only be spending time with cockroaches that can fart fire, I will also be watching a movie wherein giant bunny rabbits attack a town.

Fuck me, life is good sometimes.

"Has anyone in this family ever even seen a chicken?"

2010-04-23T11:52:00.006-04:00

Well, it's official. I am a chicken. It's true.

You know that scene at the beginning of The Fog (fuck, I love The Fog--I mean, Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, John fucking Carpenter. What's not to love?) when they are all sitting around the fire and that dude is telling the story of the Elizabeth Dane? Yeah, it's going to be like that. So settle in, kids. For here we go.

So a while back in ye olde blog, I mentioned that I was in therapy, and I also mentioned that I was going to be vague but also honest, and I mentioned that I was trying to process "really bad thing," and I mentioned that it was so hard that it makes trigonometry look like something the severely developmentally disabled would be mad awesome at. Yeah, I mentioned all those things. You might have missed it when you fell asleep reading all my boring posts about Marjoe Gortner and Tura Satana.

Anyway, I am still in therapy, and I am still trying to process "really bad thing."

Last night as I was riding the subway, I got to thinking about where Therapist and I left off on Tuesday with "really bad thing," and I got to thinking about what would have to come out of my mouth next. And I sat there listening to Neko Case ("Yes, there are things that I'm still so afraid of, but my courage is roaring like the sound of the sun," natch) and trying to imagine those words coming out of my mouth, and my body was having a reaction to it--like a very visceral reaction. This visceral reaction was not unlike panic.

(SIDE NOTE: Once when I was walking my dog at night (very, very late) a man came up to me and called me "The General" and tried to follow me into my building. It was very uncomfortable, and I had to actually struggle to avoid allowing this man into my building and into (possibly) my home. That was less visceral than this. Also, this man had no shirt on, and it was mad cold. SIDE NOTE OVER.)

My breathing changed from slow, deep breaths--something I learned in doing yoga regularly for several months last year--to rapid, shallow, and uneven. My muscles became tense. My digestive tract seemed to freeze in place, and I developed a mean headache.

Most of all, I began to experience dread. There was this feeling in the pit of my stomach that this thing I had to do the next morning was going to be the worst thing I would ever experience in my entire life. Now, of course, I know it can't be worse than "really bad thing." And I know it's all happening in this controlled space. And I know that, for the most part, I can (and mostly do) trust Therapist. But I couldn't let go of the feeling that I wouldn't be able to tolerate another day of shaking and shivering before having to go do my job.

So I went into Therapist's office and talked about cockroaches that can fart fire.*

(Yes, you just read that right.)

And you know what? She let me. She let me talk about how misogynistic Herschell Gordon Lewis's The Gore Gore Girls (1972) is and how much I love it in spite of those deficiencies. (I am wearing a Gore Gore Girls tee shirt today, y'all.) She let me joke around. She let me laugh. She let me not think about the things that have happened in the fifteen years since "really bad thing."

So I chickened out. Yeah, the Bluths would do their dance for me.

But we did talk about why I am so scared. I think (well, I suspect) that she may have known I wouldn't have been able to tolerate it. She herself had planned a trauma-lite session anyway. I'd told her that the story so far was missing things. She didn't know what I was wearing. She didn't know when he first touched me. These are things I find so much easier to type into cyberspace (yes, I hate that word, natch) than I do to say out loud. She wanted to see if we could fill in the blanks. But when she mentioned it, I could feel the body stuff start up again. I don't know if she could tell, but she probably could. She's perceptive, you know. I mean, she has this job for a reason. And I think I said something like, "Can't we just keep talking about cockroaches that can fart fire?" And I think she said something like "We can if you want to."

And so we did. But only for a minute.

She keeps saying this thing. I'll tell her that I'm not sure I can do this. And she'll tell me "You are doing it." And you know, in the moments after I've had some sort of terror seizure in her office after revealing shit that I wasn't aware I could ever reveal, yeah, okay, I'll agree. But today, no, Therapist. You're wrong. Today, I was not doing it. Today I feel like I sort of failed the good therapy client test. I did not participate in my own treatment.

Bummer.

As shitty as these sessions have been making me feel, they have also made me feel like I was working toward a goal. Today I feel like I fell off some sort of wagon. Therapist would not agree. Of this, I can assure you. She says I am too hard on myself, natch. She says that she's going to need to re-frame a lot of what I say and think (or I guess she would probably use the word judgments). She says that I should think of it like this: I knew I would not be able to tolerate another session like Tuesday's so soon after, so I took a break. She says we have time to slow down.

But I just don't know if I agree. I am stuck in a spot, it seems. I can slow down, sure. But if I do that, I'll maybe miss my chance at getting a life worth having any time soon. And fuck if I want to keep this one any longer than I have to. Bejesus. Who would want this one? I just want to move on, ya know? Let's do that. So maybe next week I can promise to make sure "my courage is roaring like the sound of the sun."

Can y'all help me out with that?

*I am not making this up. This actually happens in a film by William Castle.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
Neko Case -- Middle Cyclone

"I'm An Animal"

you could say it’s my instinct
yes, I still have one
there’s no time to second guess it
yes there are things that I’m still so afraid of
but my courage is roaring like the sound of the sun
cause it’s vain about its mane and will reveal them to no one
and I’m an animal, you’re an animal too
pick up that rock, drink from that lake
I do my best but I’m made of mistakes
yes, there are still things I’m still quite sure of
I love you this hour, this hour today
and heaven will smell like the airport
but I may never get there to prove it
so let’s not waste our time thinking how that ain’t fair
I’m an animal, you’re an animal too
you’re an animal too

Things That Make Me Happy

2010-04-22T17:54:00.004-04:00

You remember how when you were a kid (or when I was a kid), guns in science fiction movies made that "pew pew" sound? That was fun. I miss that.

In other news, Diana fucking owns.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
Neko Case -- The Tigers Have Spoken

Things That Make Me Angry*

2010-04-22T17:22:00.007-04:00

Somewhere along the way, Rolling Stone clearly misunderstood the definition of rock. How fucking dare they? No, I'm goddamn serious. How fucking dare they?

The Black Eyed Peas are many things (I have a lot of expletives stored up for the day when we have that conversation), but rock is not one of those things. And every-single-motherfucking-time I see a magazine cover that uses the word rock with a band that is decidedly not rock, I get so riled up that I actually think my head could shoot off into space and come back filled with peanuts from some other galaxy's version of air travel (because in other galaxies, people are not allergic to peanuts anymore).

This is actually very similar to when they had that "Women in Rock" issue and Britney-fucking-Spears was on the cover. If it weren't for the totally rad article on Joni Mitchell in it, I would have lit that fucker on fire at their head offices. (For your reference, I am pretty sure that issue was released in 2001.)

Look, I know it's asking a lot to expect people to know genre and understand why it matters, but come the FUCK ON! To call the Black Eyed Peas rock, it's borderline criminal. I mean, that's like calling Sanford and Son a crime drama. What the fuck? No one would ever do that? Or like calling 227 a game show. What the fuck again? It just does not compute.

Seriously, I think my brain is imploding.

EDITED TO ADD: The Black Eyed Peas also suck. Yeah, dig that, fuckers. Fergie can eat me.

*My posts are rather random today, are they not?

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
Neko Case -- Canadian Amp (She rocks harder than the Black Eyed Peas)

I Want

2010-04-22T15:18:00.006-04:00

I quite possibly want this more than I have ever wanted anything in my entire life--anything in the history of ever.

No, seriously, when I was a little girl, I once saw this squirrel running around the trunk of one of the ash trees in the front yard of our house. I, of course, dropped my copy of The Phantom Tollbooth* and immediately began maniacally chasing the squirrel around said tree. He never changed his pattern. He simply ran around and around and around in circles. I just knew I was going to catch him. In fact, catching him seemed to be the goal of my entire life. Well, it turned out that he wanted something too. HE WANTED TO MAIM ME! That's right, boys and girls. This evil little fucker of a squirrel tripped me on the sidewalk. (Yes, I know he did not actually trip me, but I like to pretend he did, much like I like to pretend he is the squirrel that somehow magically burrowed into the wall of my parents' upstairs bedroom and died. Take that, squirrel.) I still have a scar on my palm.

Anyway, I want this Baby Jane Hudson doll more than I wanted to catch that squirrel. Yeah, dolls and Baby Jane Hudson are two great tastes tasting together.

*I can neither confirm nor deny that I was reading this book at the time I chased the aforementioned squirrel.

EDITED TO ADD: Okay, so you may wonder why I did not include the Joan Crawford/Blanche Hudson doll. Well, yes, of course I love Blanche Hudson. Duh, I'm not complete tool. But my grandmommy looked just like Bette Davis (before she went all hag horror), so Bette owns the largest portion of my heart not already reserved for Judy Garland and Dolly Parton. And that's really saying something, folks. Bette fucking owns. Have you seen Burnt Offerings?

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
Neko Case -- Blacklisted

Things That Make Me Happy

2010-04-22T14:07:00.004-04:00

Marjoe fucking Gortner is mad skeezy. (Or is that spelled skeazy? Because I have no fucking idea. I'm not well-versed in kid-lingo. I think this is technically from my generation, but as I spend most of my time watching exploitation flicks from the seventies, I would suggest that I am, in fact, not of my time, so yeah, you get what I'm saying.)

EDITED TO ADD: Have y'all seen Earthquake (1974)? For reals, y'all, for reals.

EDITED TO ADD AGAIN: I promise you an actual post at some point today*

*I make no promises of any kind.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
Neko Case -- Fox Confessor Brings the Flood

The Things You Lose Along the Way (or, Light This Post on Fire)

2010-04-21T17:47:00.005-04:00

Last night as my roommate made turkey meatballs for dinner she told me that someone in her life told her that people "in my position" often lose friends, that they drop out of our lives because we're hard to handle--or (as is my maladaptive interpretation) hard to love. This someone told her I was lucky to have her. This is something I've often thought myself; though, there is something charity-ridden in the wording of it. (Pride'll get ya everytime.)

Today I went to school to turn in my thesis. I printed out a copy and made a pdf and bought a thirty-dollar binder (yes, I do find this absolutely ridiculous) and delivered it to the Humanities department. And normally I would be super-excited about this milestone. Like, "Hey, y'all, I wrote a book!" I'd be saying "Fuck Professor So-and-So. He gave me the A- that solidified that 3.925. Without him, I'd have me a 4.0." (Okay, in reality, there are three A-'s, but you get my drift.) I might also be saying, "Aw, bless you, Dekel. That A+ doesn't mean shit, but I appreciate the boost." (Shit, y'all, I'm a damn good student. And, yeah, I'm pretty proud of it even though I'm pretty sure it's meaningless in the grand scheme of things.)

But instead I am feeling something entirely different.

As I was walking away from the English department and heading down to Humanities to turn in all my paperwork, I thought about going to see her. I thought, "Maybe I should tell her I understand and that I'm sorry and that I hope one day she'll forgive me." I thought these things, and I'd like to say it was practice, that it was DBT homework. But this is a lie. I'd like to blame it on something other than my goal to hurt myself over and over and over. I'd like some of this to not be my fault.

But it is. All of it is. I did the things that scared her away. I did all the things that scared all of them away. Maybe it's this lifelong obsession with horror movies, but the one thing I seem to excel at is scaring the fucking shit out of people and making that terror last. I can do one thing that scares you, and it scares you so bad you run from me forever. (Take that Michael Myers. Yeah, you have me for 90 minutes, but after that, I'm so over you. I win.)

The trouble with this whole plan is that I wind up sitting here by myself. I've got a few steadies, it's true. God bless 'em. (Well, I don't believe in God, but you get what I mean. I guess, you know, nature/forces/luck/whatever shine upon them.) But these people that I get close to, they send me goodbye notes. I can't hold onto anything for shit these days.

And I've lost the will to be funny. Sorry about that.

But it's her I miss the most. I'm letting her plant die. Fenestra Farrah Fawcett. She helped me name it. A peace lily. Most people think these plants represent death, but she gave it to me because it's the plant he keeps in Hot Fuzz and the one he gives to his buddy. She, a forty-five-year-old Puerto Rican, gave me this. It has this meaning. And it's dying in a corner in my room. I am letting it die. I am doing this because the act of caring for it hurts more than watching it die.

And one day I'll throw it away just like she did me.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
Claudine Longet -- Colours

Things That Make Me Sad

2010-04-21T17:39:00.002-04:00

I miss people a lot today.

CURRENTLY WATCHING:
The Sarah Silverman Program -- That really fucked-up episode where Steve and Brian have a robot love-child imbued with life by the devil.

The Series Have Begun

2010-04-21T07:22:00.004-04:00

You may have noticed the arrival of posts that seem... um... short and sweet. These will continue. Stay tuned for posts of the following series:

Things That Make Me Happy
Things That Make Me Sad
Things That Make Me Angry (I have a feeling this will happen a lot)
I Want

They will likely be anything from a sentence to a paragraph to an opus, depending on the subject matter, but keep your eyes peeled. (And buy me presents.)

This Here Place and This Here Time with This Here Story

2010-04-20T10:53:00.014-04:00

As I've said over the past month or so, I've been reconsidering what kind of repository this place is going to become, and I never really made that decision. It has, however, evolved into a vaguely honest house for goings-on in my life, from horror-movie viewing to riding in an elevator to making trade books to going to concerts to dialectical behavior therapy to family drama to all around annoyingness (yes, I know the word is annoyance, but I like annoyingness better. I'm like Shakespeare. I make shit up.) that is life in a city filled with assholes just like me. As a result, I am just going to let it continue to be just what it is.

I'm going to be more open today. If you scroll way back in ye olde blog (and I kind of think I really don't want you to--so much so that I am thinking about going back and deleting this post--watch out it might be gone when you get there), you'll discover that a really bad thing happened to me when I was but a wee bonny lass. I say this in a rather flippant tone, it seems, no? Well, I say everything in a flippant tone. Get used to it. I'm a fucking enigma wrapped in a goddamned puzzle. Ask the million therapists I've worked with over the years.

Anyway, this is something that has been my little monkey on my ever-so-hunched back for a long, long time. It led to my year and a half of disappearances. It is sort of like a giant boulder in the road to (blech, I loathe using this word, but... here it goes) recovery. So I made a deal.

I promised my friend that I would begin processing "really bad thing" (this is likely how I will refer to it) if she went back into treatment. (Yes, I most definitely got the shit end of this deal.) I went into a session with New and Promising Therapist on Friday terrified but very aware of the fact that this was happening. I was going to be doing this. I was going to talk about something I hadn't spoken about in fifteen years, and yes, I was probably going to die of a heart attack in her office. Sucks for New and Promising Therapist.

Well, I did not die of a heart attack. In fact, I managed to actually say something. I did. I shocked myself by actually saying something, though admittedly very, very little. When I left New and Promising Therapist's office (name will soon be shortened to Therapist), I felt bad. No, I felt something else. In fact, bad and whatever this feeling was are not even in the same plane of existence. I can't honestly describe how I felt emotionally. I have trouble with that. Ask Therapist. She'll tell you. Or rather, I guess she won't, but she will when I'm dead, so yeah, wait for that, and then ask her.

Anyway, I can tell you how I felt physically. You know how when you get in a car accident, and you tense every single muscle in your entire body? Like from you eyebrows to your fingertips to your vagina to your toes to your knees to belly? Yeah? And then when the car accident is over, your body is like, "Phew. No need to freak out anymore." Well, the session went something like that. The whole time I was in there it was like being in a car accident, but when I made it out onto the street, my body was like, "Okay, that's over now. We can let go." And my muscles started to relax. As a result of this, I felt exhausted. I wanted nothing more in the world than to sleep... or just to lay flat... or in the fetal position. Yeah, probably the fetal position.

Well, I didn't get to do that. I had to go to work. (Therapist says there is no good time to process "really bad thing." This I do not buy. I say there has to be a better time than before a conference call or before a meeting.) As I sat at my desk at Scholastic, I thought about what had happened. I was so exhasuted that I didn't have the energy to think about anything else, to redirect my thoughts, to even try to redirect my thoughts. When the horror of what had happened began to wane (much like the horror of having watched Martyrs faded into how fucking awesome Martyrs was as a film), I realized that maybe I had done something kind of... um... brave. I began to feel like I had accomplished something, maybe something important.

I came away, ultimately, thinking that if I could do it once, well, surely, I could do it again. I wasn't thinking about the right things.

Today was attempt #2 with Therapist. And things went down a road somehow familiar and foreign at the same time. You see above there when I said I wasn't thinking about the right things? Yeah? Well, I wasn't. I wasn't thinking about how the parts of "really bad thing" that I hadn't covered were, in fact, much fucking harder to talk about, and that is why I hadn't actually covered them. I hadn't thought about the fact that doing so would cause me to react in weird and complicated and exceedingly uncomfortable ways. Some of those ways were familiar and others not so much. For example, the car crash feeling came back. I sit at my desk now thinking about how tired I am and how much I would like to curl up on the dirty, intentionally distressed floor of my office. But something new came along with it.

Today my body became something not my own. This unpleasant tension was accompanied with shaking. And I am not talking about your average "I ran outside to get the mail in pajama shorts in the winter" kind of shaking. I am talking about "I just magically developed Parkinson's in a matter of minutes" kind of shaking. If one could describe shaking as biblical or epic, this would be that kind of shaking. (Okay, obviously, I am exaggerating, but you get the fucking point.) I couldn't control it. I had no idea where it was coming from. And I needed it to stop. Apparently so did Therapist. She wrapped me in a blanket, which was kind... and comforting. (Thank you into the ether for that kindness, Therapist.)

And so I sit post-conference call thinking about why this bothers me so much, why my sense of ownership of my body is such a complicated one, why it matters so much, why I want to feel disconnected from my body yet am resistant of sensations that make it feel outside my control. I'm not a complete tool (only partial), so I get it. Yeah, I know. "Really bad thing" is the reason. I've lost ownership along the way. It's not really mine now. I don't look at it in the mirror. I don't put my hands on it unless I have to, to clean it, to tend its wounds. I don't want to acknowledge its presence... because doing so is to acknowledge his. His what? His hands, mouth, etc. You get the drift. Don't make me say it. I can't. That's the whole fucking point of this melodramatic post.

EDITED TO ADD: I realize that my comparing myself to Shakespeare makes me sound like an arrogant prick. Sorry about that. Hmm, yeah, that's all I've got on that one. (I'm not a huge fan of Shakespeare with the exception of The Tempest and Titus Andronicus. Julie Taymor sure has good taste, doesn't she?)

EDITED TO ADD AGAIN: I need a hug today.

EDITED TO ADD AGAIN AGAIN: That previous post I was talking about has now been deleted. Sorry, dudes. Vague references is all you get. I'm sure you can figure it out. You're clever fuckers.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
The Carter Family -- Wildwood Flower

Things That Make Me Angry

2010-04-19T12:36:00.002-04:00

If you are in the elevator, and you press a button to take you to the floor, I fucking promise you, the doors will close. You don't need to press the "door close" button. They'll fucking close. In fact, I bet you all the money in my purse, plus a million dollars, that if the elevator is not broken, the FUCKING DOORS WILL CLOSE.

That's just overkill.

Safe... (Not Like the Todd Haynes Film... and Not Like Anything Worth Reading... or Maybe You Should Just Set Yourself on Fire... or Me)

2010-04-18T21:29:00.009-04:00

Sometimes people have to remind me I'm safe. I never know how to deal with that. I find it confuses me. They'll sit across from me and say something like, "I'm not going to hurt you. You're safe here." And I'm struck with the need to say something like, "I fucking know that. You don't have to tell me that." I say this because they're saying so makes me feel like they perceive me as weak. I don't want them to see me that way. I want to seem like Tura Satana. I want to seem impervious--something I once thought I was.

And even though I am struck with the need to say those words, I don't. I don't say that because I need to hear those words. I need to be reminded that I'm safe. I need the reminder because I am in these days now when safety is something that, though I have it in one way or another, seems far removed. It seems impossible to achieve.

It turns out safety is a complicated thing. Even when things are going well, when I know my surroundings, when I am not surrounded by men with knives or soldiers with guns, I have this tendency to surround my bed with a barrier of protective pillows. This is a habit I've had since I was a child, since I had a recurring dream of my father, with his glowing bald head, chasing me from door to door of our old plantation home in Southern Illinois with a knife in hand.

There's a list of things in my mind that I try to keep myself safe from. This list has grown and grown over the past year and a half. And over the past year and a half, this list has seemed closer and closer to home, so I've grown more dangerous, it seems. To be the dangerous influence in your own life is strange. I've tried to explain it to some of the people in my life, but the limits of understanding are all too present and especially so when it comes to this particular subject matter, so I keep this little gem between myself and just a few others.

And then there's him... and what he still has of me. Or what I let him have of me. Last night I had this conversation via text message (always a bad choice) in which a friend tried to convince me that what needs to change is my perspective. I need to see things as something I do and not something that is done to me. This is true, of course, but in the wrong moment, when one is feeling the sensations of a night long past, perspective seems impossible. And I could only pray to a god I do not believe it that the feeling of someone else's tastebuds on my tongue would go away, that someone else's invisible hands on my skin would go away, that I would be my own again if only for ten whole minutes.

I wanted those ten minutes. I'll always want those ten minutes.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick, and Tich -- The Best of Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick, and Tich

If My Hands Stop Working, You Can Call Me Lazy

Oh, Professor... You Done Good.

Another Couple of Months on the Roller Coaster

Everyday Is Like Sunday

The Anniversary (And No, I Am Not Talking About That Awesome Bette Davis Movie Wherein She Yells at People and You Feel Gleeful)

A Little Workday Story to Tide You Over Until I Return Again (Also, There Is a Photo of a Turtle Breathing Fire)

No Locks. No Heat. No Patience.

Survey Says....

WTF

Yes, I'm Still Alive (Not That You Were Worried About That)

Update on the Sads

Look Not Everything Can Be Funny

How Was Your Weekend?

Things That Make Me Angry

There Is Blood in This Post

This Is One of Those Posts You Should Set on Fire

More Questions I Cannot or Will Not Answer (Again... Set This Post on Fire)

Things That Don't Suck

More Secrets Meant for Email

Oh, The Joys of Temp/Freelance Employment

Oh, David Bowie, Won't You Help Me Through This Month (or Two or Ten)?

Something to Tide You Over

A Break

On the Silence in That Room

Today Is . . .

Today I Am

Something About Mary Gaitskill and My Father

I'm Going to Roundhouse Kick a Kitten in the Face. For Reals, Y'all

Stuart Gordon in the Evening and Herschell Gordon Lewis in the Morning

Something About Books and Writing

Things That Don't Suck

This Is the Post Wherein I Reveal My Plans of World Domination*

Things That Don't Suck

Adventures with the MTA

Something About Amy Bloom and My Father and Mother

Things That Don't Suck

Hospital Care 1*

Things That Make Me Sad

Things That Don't Suck

This Is Only a Test

If You're Reading This, You Should Know It's Unpleasant (Another Post to Set on Fire)

In My Imagination . . .

Things That Don't Suck

A Little Exposure Supposedly Does the Trick

Things That Don't Suck

Something Cheesy This Way Comes

Things That Make Me Angry

Closure Comes in a Priority Mail Package

If I Do Consider Myself a Film Critic . . .

Things That Make Me Angry

I Should Be Writing Something Else

"This shirt just does nothing for me..."

Things That Make Me Happy

Things That Make Me Angry

I'm a Bit of an Anger Ball Today, Folks

Why Do I Do These Things to Myself?

And the Hits Just Keep On Coming

Adventures with the New York City Police Department

Why Hynocil Is Still Only a Dream

Why I Don't Usually Blog on Weekends

Things That Make Me Angry

How to Reveal Your Most Shameful Secret in an Email

"Tonight is the night, and I'm feeling all right..."

The Things I Can't Seem to Say Out Loud and a Series of Fears I Hope to Never Realize

Things That Make Me Angry

I Am So Bored With Myself (This Post Is Much in the Way of Randomness)

Today I Am

An Update on the Goings-On in the Head Dept.

What I Am

Toys and the War on Drugs

"Rainy Days and Mondays Always Get Me Down"

And Missy Was Shock

Fuck Fridays

Things That Make Me Angry

Things That Make Me Angry

Things That Make Me Happy

The Weekly Reel

An Ode to an Armenian

Things That Make Me Happy/I Want

A Little Bit of This and a Little Bit of That