dana430’s blog

I feel like a shell of myself.  Isn't that the most cliched sentence ever?  But no, I really feel like I'm on auto-pilot.  I feel myself walking through the semi-automatic revolving doors of NYU Hospital, through my semi-automatic life, and am not entirely sure how I got there.  Ok, really, figuratively I have no idea how any of us got into this horrific, fucked up situation, but literally, I have no idea how I got there.  Autopilot, I tell you.

I've stopped caring about the peripherals.  Haven't gotten a manicure in 6 weeks.  Need to dye my hair.  Always look disheveled.  No guys.  None at all.  None on the backburner.  None I'm "kind of seeing".  I haven't gone out with my friends; acted my age; even contemplated the fact that I'll be 25 in a month - or graduating in June.  Haven't read any books, or Newsweek, or my vapid Cosmo.  No singing in my room at the top of my lungs.  It's like everything non-obligatory has ceased to exist. 

Here's what I still continue to do.  I read the news religiously.  Current events and finance - my industry.  I have thrown myself into both jobs.  And I read blogs.  And I blog. 

Because when I'm with people, I don't want to talk about hospitals, and drugs, and MRIs, and spinal taps, and 6 figures of debt, and mortgages, and hemorrhagic encephalitis, and gamma globulins, and lymphoma, and brain damage, and death.  I don't want to talk about it.  I want to talk about silly, insignificant things.  Anecdotes.  But this - this here - lets me be completely self indulgent.  Lets me talk about what I think and what I wonder about and what I love and what I'm afraid of.  Lets me get some of the things that are on my brain..... somewhere more positive.  Somewhere more productive.   So I can synthesize.  So I can deconstruct.  What's going on, how I play into it.  Lets me be completely unapologetic. 

I keep a journal with me.  I write down things that inspire me all the time.  Song lyrics, quotes.  I write them in my organizer, stick them on post-its, stick them in emails and save them as drafts.  Wherever I am at the moment.  I could use some inspiration. 

I'm losing 'me' a little bit, every day, and becoming more and more just a person who performs my functions.  Pull me out from inside.

I get up in the evening, and I ain't got nothing to say
I come home in the morning, I go to bed feeling the same way
I ain't nothing but tired, man I'm just tired and bored with myself
Hey there baby, I could use just a little help

Messages keep getting clearer, radio's on and I'm moving round the place
I check my look in the mirror... I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face
There's something happening somewhere, baby I just know that there is

You can't start a fire...
Sitting around crying over a broken heart
This gun's for hire even if we're just dancing in the dark

You can't start a fire
Worrying about your little world falling apart
This gun's for hire even if we're just dancing in the dark 

PS - I will marry the man who can recognize all of my references to music lyrics.

Borrowed from my LJ...

it's midnight, on a Saturday, and I've been in bed since 10:45.  i was invited to a party tonight, but i didn't go.  i haven't gone out since february 1st, i believe.  which makes it a full 6 weeks since i've last gone out, last socialized.  and i just - i just don't have the energy, the desire.  i can't summon up the will to want to get dressed up, wear heels, look like a person, do my hair, go out, act social and smile and act like a person when i feel like shit.  i'm flirting with depression but just don't want to take the 'zac.  my eye is twitching but i won't take a pill for that, either.  and the thing is, i'd love to say that i feel so frantic, and so alone, and so lonely, and so manic, and so frightened.... but the truth is, that would all be a lie.  i don't feel anything too strongly.  i cry about as often as i smile.  all i want to do is sleep.  so here's what i'm attempting to do, since i've never done it before.  it feels completely anathema to who i am, and i feel you judging me already.  this, like my blog, is incredibly self-indulgent, but it is mine, and short of hurting people, i've never apologized for anything i've written in it.  this, my friends, is a love letter to myself.

1. I love myself because I put myself through law school and the majority of undergrad.  And I know that I say that a lot, but I really am that damn proud.  Because I know very few people who can say that they've done this.  Because I know very few people my age who aren't getting help from their parents - whether it's rent, or school tuition, or insurance, etc.  I've spent thousands paying off my barbri bar prep class, the NJ bar and the NY bar... without my parents paying for it, without taking out a loan.  And there is something to be said for that.
2. Piggybacking on number 1.... I did my homework and found (at the time) the savings program with the highest APR.  My bf at the time joked, "you had me at HSBC", because he was so surprised that I'm so in control of my finances.  I have my paychecks for the next 5 months calculated and written into my organizer.  Next to each paycheck, I have allocated exactly what I will pay, and to whom.  I have made payments on my loans every month for the past year and a half.  I know exactly what I owe out in loans, and to whom.  Did my homework when I was considering consolidation.  And I can tell you my interest rates on my loans and credit cards (when I'm not calling my companies and threatening them that I'll leave if they don't lower them) as well as the latest interest rate cut by the Fed (and probably also the price of oil and gold).
3. Piggybacking on number 1 and 2 one more time, then I'll drop this subject.  I am busting my ass to get through law school, and 6 (yes, 6) figures in debt because I don't ever want to rely on my parents, or a guy.  I will never rely on my husband to just 'take care' of the mortgage, the bills, the 'what have you' and not know about my finances.  I will never be a trophy wife.  I will never try to marry a doctor just because they make a lot of money.  And I don't think that marrying someone who makes a lot of money makes you impressive. 
   
4. I am proud of my jobs, and my earnings, but I will never be the bragging type... about money, or clothing, or jewelry, or vacations, or relationships.  It's just not who I am.  And I am horrified by this generation of women who are apparently lacking in all humility, but that will never be me.
5. But speaking of jobs.... I am good at mine.  I have doubted every moment of my law school existence, but this job of mine - this is the first thing that's really convinced me that I will be ok.  I parlayed a summer internship into a two year job.  I have a supervisor who likes me enough that she admitted to wanting to set me up with her son.  I am good at my job.  And it is hard.  And it requires a heck of a lot of background knowledge that I started out not having, other than law, and it's a man's world.  And that's that.
6. I see the best in everybody.  I think girls are pretty when no one else does (including my exes' girls).  When I stop dating someone, I don't stop caring for them, and hoping for the best for them.  No matter how mad I can get at a friend or family member, there's still nothing I wouldn't do for them.  And I may get frustrated, and say things to my friends or family members, but I would never, ever let anyone else say those things. 
   
7. I am loyal like a Golden Retriever.  When I am in love with someone, they are my world.  And while I understand that "looking" is okay, so long as you're not cheating, when I'm really into someone, I don't even look.  I don't even see other people.  And I find myself spending my time just wondering what else I could do to make this wonderful person happy.  As busy as I've ever been with school, I've never put it before a boyfriend - maybe to my detriment.
   
8. I am mighty skilled with a blow dryer, curling iron, straightening iron, and hot rollers.
9. I am a faithful person.  I wake up and the first thing I do, every day, is thank G-d for being alive.  And I pray, and judge myself based on my own actions.  I believe in karma.  I don't believe that two wrongs ever make a right, or that someone hurting you lets you hurt them back.  I have hurt people.  I have done things for which I'm not proud.  But I've never, ever justified them under the guise of, "he hurt me first."  I have hurt terribly over my own actions, no matter how much the other person purportedly 'deserved it'.  Because I realize that it's not my place to mete out judgment, and I can only worry about myself. 
   
10. I can carry a tune, and I know the words to a lot of songs.  I am a classically trained pianist and have played first clarinet with the Brooklyn Philharmonic.  But I think that my love of and ear for music change the way I think about and see the world.  I see the world in lyrics, music, colors.  There is a soundtrack to my life.  I think deeply into everything - everything I say, everything I see. 
    
11. I studied Latin for 5 years, and Ancient Greek for 1.  I studied French for 8 years.  As a result, I can understand most French, Latin, Italian, and Spanish, and have an odd understanding for a lot of medical terminology.  I also have an amazing vocabulary and got a near-perfect score on my verbal SATs.  I scored the score that my college advisor said would never be possible, back in high school.  I did it without any kind of course or tutor. 
    
12. I scored in the 94th percentile on my LSAT.  I did that without a course or tutor, too.
13. I can tell you what and where Montenegro, Eritria, and Lesotho are.  I can explain for you the difference between Sunni and Shia Islam, and about the Bahai faith.  I can quote the Old and New Testament.  I have read from the great books of nearly every "great" religion.  I have a dog-eared copy of The Book of Mormon on my dresser.  
14. I can't see people cry without crying.
15. I believe in dressing classy at all times.  I have nothing against sexiness, but I am more impressed by sexy people who don't need to be naked to get attention.
16. My fashion sense ain't half bad.  And I am really good at dressing my body.  My body is not so bad sans clothing, either.
17. I have really big eyes.
18. FUCK FUCK FUCK... i got to 17 and couldn't think of anything else.  How sad is that?  And I had to ask my brother, but that's cheating.  But I could only make it to 17, and like 5 of them relate to my independence.  The next few are gratis my brother.
19. How come you dont throw in anything about your family...how you run constantly and do everything you can.  Ok, I'll admit it.  I am in school full time, and intern, and have a job.  And go to physical therapy.  And go to the hospital virtually every day.  And I have an hour commute to said jobs and school.  But I would never think of not being there for my family.
20. Selflessness... for your friends.  I adore my friends.  I said goodbye to a friendship this year because of how the person spoke to me.  In a nutshell, he called me selfish, and a bad friend.  Socially awkward.  And the thing is, some of the specific issues, I might have even agreed with him.  He had the right to be upset with me for certain things.  But he didn't single out specific things.  He painted in broad strokes.  Told me I use people.  Told me I only speak to my friends to use them as my therapy sessions, or when I'm bored.  And he would come to apologize, and wish me a happy new year, even.  But I realized two things.  One, I do not need anyone who can talk that way to me, or who feels that way about me, in my life.  Two, even if he really was just angry and didn't mean those things, I love my friends like I love my family, and I could never, ever be friends with someone who could question that.
21. I am not a petty person.  I give compliments really easily.  Even to strangers.  I've said this before and I'll say it again... I am really weirded out by people who don't give compliments.  Either they never find anything redeeming, about which to compliment, or they can't bring themselves to give said compliment.  I'm not sure which is worse.
22. At my sister's wedding, I cried so hard, I could barely breathe.  I have also cried several times for my friends, when they were hurting, and sometimes have been so very happy for my friends that you'd think it was my own happiness

I am leaving this off here... because I just can't think of anything.  How messed up is that... I can't even write myself a love letter?  Maybe I'll come back to this, maybe not.  I was hoping that this would make me feel better..... for some reason, I'm not sure that it did. 

This is what i'm listening to:

(What's the Story) Morning Glory?

Oasis

This city takes on so much meaning when you've lived it through your experiences with other people.  I suppose every place is like that, but New York seems to really hold on to the memories of what transpired there.  I remember how hard it was to still work on the UWS after I stopped dating Big K.  He lived 17 blocks away from my job, so I seemingly spent every minute in that neighborhood.  During the week I was at my lovely museum, and on the weekends he and I would wander.... walk along the Hudson, through Riverside Park.  I fell in love with the UWS that summer - with Central Park, Strawberry Fields, CPW, the Museum of Natural History.  And I maybe fell in love with a troubled man 8 years my senior - though I can never be sure.  When we stopped dating, I was devastated.  I didn't go out, and stayed in my room rolled up in a ball crying.  I felt useless and worthless and completely alone.  But somehow, some way, I took the UWS back.  And I took "me" back from him.  That's not to say that I don't think of him when I walk on Columbus or Amsterdam.... but it doesn't hurt anymore.  He text messaged me two weeks ago - "how's my favorite insomniac lawyer?"  I'm not anything of his, anymore... and not so sure I was ever his favorite anything.

After the split from the "ex boy", I remember that I had a finals review class to take at Barbri, which was not too far from where he lived.  It was also my destination on a Sunday morning after our first raging battle of a fight that Saturday night prior, and would lead to our first break up, and what can only be described as perhaps the worst 2 weeks of my life.  So when I got to Barbri a month or so later, I felt like my heart was going to explode.  I called my mother - "I can't do this."  It was across the street from Haru, where we'd had our second date.  And it just.... hurt more than anything should be allowed to hurt.  "A broken heart is awful", my mother would answer, "but it will be that much worse if you have to deal with a broken heart and failing grades."  And she was right.  I could barely eat or sleep.... heck, I could barely deal for 5 minutes at a time without my breath catching in my throat.  I couldn't listen to music, couldn't watch television.  And yet, I think that might have been my highest law school GPA. 

33rd and Park.  Up until recently, I don't think I'd ever even seen this subway station at day time.  I love the 4/5/6 line - I think they are fantastic trains and there is never a wait.  But they have also seemingly always been affiliated with the guys I've dated.  33rd and Park was the 6 stop for the guy I mentioned a few days ago - the one who quoted DMB.  But the 6 line doesn't run all that often at 2 in the morning.  And I'm stupid for ever having taken a train at 2 in the morning.  But my days of that are over.  Nothing can make you feel more lonely than having no one to come home to on a Saturday night - transversing the world (or the isle of Manhattan, anyway) all alone. 

One of my besties moved to Murray Hill a few years ago, and it started to become "her" subway stop.  It would be the stop where I'd show up to get dressed as Madonna for Halloween.  Where I'd exit, dressed in BCBG jeans and a taupe and gold crocheted Kenneth Cole top the night I reconciled with ex boy.  Where I'd go the night I spent at a 3rd Avenue bar, with all of my friends, doing shots of liquid cocaine, and met a guy who would become my boyfriend 3 weeks later.  Where I exited and teetered down 34th Street, wearing 3 inch black patent leather Mary Janes, and carrying pounds and pounds of sugar cookies and brisket, like the nice Jewish girl that I am.  I would come to affectionately call that stop the "Jap stop", because it's where all of the Murray Hill Japs got on and off (although I would like to note that my friend who lives there is wonderful and down to earth and not a Jap).

33rd and Park has taken on another meaning - again.  It's the stop where I get off when I'm going to visit my stepdad in the hospital.  Whether it's from school or from work, it's always that train, that stop.  And I get off the train and then have a walk over to 33rd and 1st.  At times I enjoy the walk.... 5 minutes to myself, to get some clarity, to get myself mentally prepared for what I'm about to see.  But most of the time it's just so.... dreary, monotonous.  Nothing ever changes.  My ubiquitous iPod plays a soundtrack, artificially giving color to everything around me.  "I got my mind set on you..."  "I look from the wings at the play you are staging while my guitar gently weeps... as I'm sitting here doing nothing but aging..."  Rain, clouds, traffic.  "He was planning a surprise party for your graduation, and now he doesn't even know who you are.".... still my guitar gently weeps.

I stood at the Bowling Green 5 station on Tuesday, heading back to school from work.  I remembered standing there in December during Hanukkah waiting to head back to Brooklyn Heights with my boy at the time.  Remembering how he'd looked at me, made me feel wanted, and sexy, and interesting, and worth the effort.  We'd just had a long, yummy dinner at an Italian restaurant.  He looked adorable.. he was wearing a suit and tie, and I a yellow cashmere sweater and white button down.  It was the first Hanukkah gift I'd ever gotten from a guy I was dating (the ex boy apparently didn't think I was deserving of a gift... two years in a row).  And I felt great, and amazing, and cared for, and just wanted to take him home and kiss him all night.  Three days later we were separated.

I don't know.  Either this city has got to start holding something good in it for me again, or I need to get out of this city for a while

for some artists, pain is their muse, and their best works are created under great depression.  Van Gogh was fucking nuts, for example.  and when they find some happiness, some inner peace, their art is sometimes criticized for lacking that 'edge', that 'element'.  melissa etheridge, fiona apple, alanis morissette.  it may be one part type casting, that this is what the public has grown accustomed to, and it may be that the artist is just lacking the inspiration.  i can always write when i have heart ache.  when my heart is hurting, when i'm sad, and lonely, and angry, and feel wronged.  i seldom really write when i'm happy, or when things are copasetic.  i can write when i'm stressed with work, with school, feeling more obsessive than usual, feeling ugly, feeling fat, feeling useless, feeling frustrated.  but right now, my stepdad is getting worse, and i have nothing to say, it seems.  what is there to say, other than to give the same status report to people repeatedly?  what is there to say, other than thanking people for their kindness and concern (although i would like to note that every single 'thank you' is sincere and heart felt).

here's what i will say.  i'm exhausted.  physically and mentally.  i've spent every day since last tuesday in the hospital, while trying to juggle the two jobs and school.  i am physically exhausted from running around.  i left my house at 7 yesterday, went to the city to work, went back to brooklyn for school, took the train, walked to physical therapy, walked back to the train and headed back into the city to go to the hospital.  i didn't see my house until a little before midnight.  i am mentally exhausted.  but i won't dare complain out loud about this, because, as awful as it is to do this kind of running, for my mother there is no escape.  she gets to sit there in a chair all day, hoping that he will be able to say her name, hoping he will be able to say his own name, hoping he won't have another stroke or seizure right there before her very eyes. 

i am so very lonely.  i don't think humans are equipped to be alone, and i especially don't think i am.  as much as i love my independence, my alone time, my freedom, i love having someone to dote on, to worry about, to spend time with.  someone who actually gets to see me cry, ice princess that i am.  someone to force me out of my protective shell.  i've had it before.   i wish i had it now.  i cannot even begin to imagine how my mother must feel. 

it might be a quarter-life crisis
or just the stirring in my soul

When I first heard this song (my college roommate had a slight obsession with John Mayer), I laughed out loud at it even if I did understand it on some level.  I laughed because I was determined to not like John Mayer, and I laughed because it was easier than admitting that I've been there.  That Sarah McLachlan's "Full of Grace" makes me think of what I can only classify as full fledged depression during my sophomore year.  That I cried the night before going back to college my junior year, that's how badly I didn't want to return.  That I still dip back into depression easily.  That I fall into ruts.  That I go weeks on four hours of sleep at night.  That I question everything.  That I overcompensate.  And even though I had cushions a few years ago (my loans aren't due yet; I am going to law school so don't really have to worry about a full time 'career' yet; I am still young and don't need to find a husband yet; I have many baby-making years ahead of me and don't need to worry about that yet), it all weighed heavily on my mind.  I've always been somewhat of a middle aged woman trapped in a younger body.  Well, considering the state of my hips and back (yea, not liking the state of THAT union), maybe not even a young body.  Does thinking old, stressing, avoiding puddles, coloring in the lines age you, body wise, too?

It's all happening, one after the other.  I turn 25.  I graduate.  I take the bar.   My loans become due.  I need a job.  My clock is ticking.  No, I don't want to be married now.  Or next year.  And the more I observe my friend's relationships, the more I question who the hell actually is happy.  But I do want to have the kiddies someday, and unlike Hollywood, I believe in marriage first.  It's just how I roll.  So yea.  I will be needing a husband - which means needing a boyfriend.  And it's this big vicious cycle.  Every moment that I'm out, all I can think about is how much work I have to do.  How much I could have gotten accomplished if I'd have stayed home.  And so I stay home, crash on weekends, make up for the sleep I'm not getting and the food I'm not eating, embrace my bed (my one true mistress), and get my work done.  And then when I stay home, getting my work done, feeling diligent, I just keep thinking - I'm not going to meet anyone in my pajamas in my bedroom.  I'm just not.

I couldn't sleep last night, which is ironic.  My effing hip is bruised and sore, and I run around all day, and my stomach kills me, and I'm exhausted, but then I get into bed and can't sleep.  And the thing is, before you go right to the whole 'psychosomatic' thing, it's really more of a second wind thing.  Like I'm tired at inopportune times - at 2pm, at 5pm, at 8pm.  And then the thing is, midnight comes, and I'm in my amazing bed, on my soft sheets, and to be honest - I don't want to sleep through it.  Have you ever felt that way - that you just want to enjoy being comfortable and sedentary and watching something mind numbing?? 

anyhow, pardon the digression.  whilst not sleeping last night, i ended up catching late late night Oprah.  They were discussing books that deal with 'raising your consciousness' - about putting out positive energy to get positive results in your life.  I guess it's sort of in line with that whole "The Secret" book, about having goals in mind, visualizing them, having positive thoughts, and getting positive results.  The cynic in me says that it's a bunch of bullshit and if I have time to read, I'd rather read a novel and nothing remotely self-helpy.  But I don't know, that other part of me - it just thinks, maybe that is the key to life.  More positive thinking.  More positivity.  Less worrying and stressing.  Which would probably give me less stomach problems and less sleep problems.  I don't know.  I really don't.

this is a post that i'd kept private at the time that it was happening.

I spent Thanksgiving last year in Kings Highway Beth Israel hospital.  Three days before Thanksgiving, I got off of the B Train and realized that I had voicemail from my mother.  I panicked - my parents never left me messages if it wasn't important.  I knew something was important.  The message was frantic.  Something was wrong.  My mother needed help.  Jay was very sick and needed to go to the hospital.  He had been suffering from a sinus infection, as he so often did.  He had a doctor's appointment that day; my mother was in Long Island with a friend.  When she'd never heard from him that day, she started calling.  No answer.  She called the doctor's office to find out that he'd left hours ago.  She knew something was wrong.  She came home to find him sprawled out on the bathroom floor.  Apparently he'd been vomiting for days.  He was fighting with her and didn't want to go to the hospital.  When I got home, he fought even more with us.  He looked scary - pale and gaunt and dehydrated - like something out of the Stephen King Thriller, "Thinner".  We made him go to the hospital anyway - even calling his own ambulance company.  It would be the second time in 6 months that I'd need to go to the hospital for one of my parents, after my mother had been in a head-on collision a few months earlier (I was the first family member on the scene).

My stepdad wasn't just dehydrated, he was going into ketoacidotic shock.  Ketoacidosis is a serious condition that can lead to diabetic coma or even death.  It denotes dangerously high levels of ketones - acids that build up in the blood, poisoning the body.  Ketoacidosis usually develops slowly.  But when vomiting occurs, this life-threatening condition can develop in a few hours. He'd been vomiting for days.  His blood sugar was sky rocketing when we get there.  Normal is around 100 - I think his was around 500.  I don't even remember; it's funny what the mind represses.  After losing my actual, biological father, watching my "other" father be hospitalized was frightening.

The week was awful and I had very little support.  I spent the night in the emergency room with my mother for hours and hours.  My "support system" text messaged me that he was tired and going to bed, and never answered when I called or text him.  Some support system.  We sat by his bedside on Thanksgiving.  Everyone was amazing; offering to bring food to us.  There were more important things.  He ended up okay, thank gd.  He would end up hospitalized again 4 months later, as would my mother a little while after that, again.  This Thanksgiving I am thankful to have my entire family around me, in one piece.

When you met me, I was "new" to you.  You were a little shy around me, and I made you a little nervous.  You cleaned your apartment when I came over.  Went out of your way to be really sweet and doting.  The night before my sister's rehearsal dinner, you wrote me a long email addressing my blog.  You told me that a guy who really cares about a girl should put her as number 1, because everything else in life is, as you put it, "everything else".  I was floored by it.  It's still saved in my email.  I actually even printed it.  I talked about it with all of the bridesmaids the next day.... how different you seemed, and how amazed and, well, floored I was.  This one is different. 

We had our first fight one night, and it frightened the hell out of me.  I can't remember all of your words - again, it's funny how the mind represses.  I was sitting on my bed with my laptop, and your words were so very cutting that I had to sign off, feeling the tears welling up.  You told me that you weren't sure I was over some or all of my ex boyfriends.  Told me that my way of handling things was immature.  So, I said to you, I'm immature and difficult and not over my exes, huh?  Don't forget condescending, you responded.  I know my words can burn and can cut.  I've learned that before.  It's why I'm so careful with them.  If my words cut, yours lacerate.  I realized at that moment a few things: when you are angry you are an entirely different person.  When you and I clash, I fall right back into my old ways - your words and tone start to feel threatening, and I retreat into "apologize and cry" submissive mode.  The same way I vowed to never be again. 

We had our second fight on a Saturday.  I was sitting in my bathrobe in my computer chair and I felt numb.  The other you had come out again.  The angry you.  The you that stops being sweet and doting.  The you that says things - things that hurt and make my breath catch in my throat.  I needed some clarity, and we stopped talking for the night.  In my head, I thought... I can't date someone who can get like that when he gets angry.  I thought... our personalities don't work; we clash.  I thought... it was fun while it lasted.

You were the first guy with whom I ever considered going away.  I was afraid to ask you if you wanted to go to Boston with me.  I thought it could be fun, and I wanted to approach it to you not as a "romantic weekend away" so much as, I miss Boston, you want to go to Boston, we have the same vacation, let's go.  But you actually suggested it.  I was excited about it, until that second "fight"... because that fight felt less like a fight and more like a deal breaker.  Like maybe we have no business going anywhere together.  And I was mad at you, and I was hurt, and confused, and tried to not fall back into the easy routine with you.  I put up a good fight for a few days but I like you and we have chemistry and I gave in pretty easily without even realizing it.  And I thought again that I DO want to go to Boston and I DO want to go with you.  So I started researching hotels and trains.  I looked at hotels on AAA.  On Trip Advisor.  Compared hotels with the MBTA line to see how close they were to the T.  Got a map of Downtown Boston to see what train lines were needed to get to the aquarium, Copley Square, and the Prudential Center.  Looked up Marriott points and Hyatt points and how many we had and how many were needed.  And only after I'd had no less than 9 web pages open and had done my homework did I present you with prices and the whole "package".  You seemed to be down for it.  All I needed was your approval. 

I wanted to book it on Tuesday, but you didn't get home until late.  I spent much of Wednesday at the rheumatologist, hearing words like "rheumatoid arthritis" and "lupus", and shuddering.  I waited for you to come home from work so that we could finally book the thing.  And then you came home and told me that you forgot to ask your boss.  You seemed nonchalant about it... kind of blase.   And I know I can be sensitive, too much so, but the thought that was going through my head was.... we've been talking about this for weeks... all you had to do was ask your boss.  It was odd to me that you didn't seem apologetic at all.  It was odd to me that it seemed presented almost like, "well, I didn't ask, so I guess you'll have to wait."  I was thrown for a loop.  I tried to not say anything, because that's where I am now.  I literally found myself saying the other day, "just fight those urges to say something back.  You have to stop answering.  Just let it all go when you get upset and don't be difficult" with regard to you. 

Because you've told me more than once that I make things out of nothing and look for a fight.  And it's why I asked my brother for advice - for a rational male mind - because I needed to see if this was one more example of me being difficult and overly sensitive.  He saw your response... "I didn't ask my boss.  You'll have to wait until Tuesday, what do you want me to tell you", and had the same reaction I did - wow, that was pretty matter of fact.  And then you said to me, "you know what, you should just go with someone else, because this 'relaxing' weekend away is giving me a headache."  Mere seconds after I'd finished telling you that I wanted to go with YOU.  It was at that point that I should have told you to go fuck yourself.  But I didn't.  So I explained to you, stupidly, going against my little pact with myself to "fight the urges", that I felt that you were a little matter of fact and blase about telling me that you forgot.  Because it didn't make sense to me.  You wrote to me about how, if a guy cares about a girl, he should be willing to go all out for her, and you seemed put out by the fact that I had expected that you would have asked your boss after weeks of discussing something.  You said I was "pushing you", because I asked if you could email your boss.  For a trip that you actually brought up.  Because I wanted to book anyway (and would rather just get it refunded, if necessary).  And your response?  You know, if you're going to interpret everything I say, I'm not going to talk to you, because it's annoying. My reaction was two-fold: incredulousness and appall.   The incredulousness because, well, generally, the way human nature works is, one person says or does something, the other person interprets it and reacts in kind.  I believe it's called communication.  An important aspect of communication is the interpretation of the signals received.  But I digress.  You actually threatened to not talk to me.  You went ahead and did it. 

Once upon a September you asked me what my biggest fear was.  I told you that it was being alone.  My fear is of being alone.  Of being left.  Because it's happened before.  You've told me that I always seem to expect the worst out of things and people; wait for the worst to happen.  And for good reason... I've had an unfortunate pattern of some people in my life, interspersed with the amazing ones.  But you actually went ahead and did it.  You threatened to NOT TALK TO ME... in essence, to, well, leave.  Don't worry, I said.  I won't push you anymore.  I won't ask you anymore.  I won't bother you with it anymore.  And you were true to your promise.... you stopped talking to me.

I was sick most of last night.  My stomach was killing me and my head was killing me and I couldn't eat anything all night.  I spoke to C and DD, and both independently said the same thing to me: that 'old you' (me) is coming back.  The insecure one, who does nothing but blame everything on herself and apologize for everything; who sticks up for herself only to start to freak out and get scared and retreat and say things like, "never mind.  You're right.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry I brought it up." 

You have that personality type that is lethal to me.  I will never stick up to you, for fear that you will get upset with me.  And if I do, I will regret it immediately, and apologize, and try to take it back.  And we'll clash, and we'll fight.  You'll be over it and think I'm difficult and annoying and interpret too much and give you a headache.  I'll spend the rest of the night not eating and not sleeping, my head pounding, beating myself up all night for stupidly opening my mouth again. 

And that....... that I can't handle.  As proud as I was of myself two Saturdays ago for sticking up for myself and not backing down when I felt strongly about something, I've realized pretty quickly that it was a fleeting moment.   And I will give in.... every time.  And that..... that I can't handle. 

I made a very big decision two days ago.  And while I made that decision in a split second, it was something I’d pondered many times before.  My stupid Razr cell phone is slow as shit, mainly because I have so many incoming and outgoing text messages saved.  So I’ve gone through and deleted ones that say things like “yes” or “see you later”.  My phone is set to ask me before saving outgoing texts.  I just can’t – can’t can’t can’t – delete all of those messages.  Or won’t. 

I like to keep a record of things.  It’s why I blog.  It’s why I write down my weight.  It’s why I still have every report card.  But I also like recorded things because it’s proof; empirical evidence.  The way I once felt that I needed to have “in a relationship” in a Facebook profile as evidence to everyone else (and mainly myself) that I was, in fact, in a relationship.  The way that I don’t care how much a professor may like me or respect me, I want to see a grade.  “Smart” is too subjective of a word.  Having a GPA with which to back it up – that’s proof.  It’s why I care what I weigh, even though 98% of people can’t tell that I’ve gained a pound and 100% don’t care.  “Feeling thinner” is nice, but showing a 22lb. weight loss is proof.  So these text messages serve as a record of moments in my life.  Little snapshots – testimony – to the fact that at one point someone cared enough about me to text message me to say goodnight.  That someone cared enough to text message me, “Happy Valentine’s Day to my girlfriend” on February 14.  To the fact that someone (well, a few someones) desired me enough to feel the need to express it via text message because email wouldn’t suffice – either because it was not personal enough or wouldn’t be as instantaneous.  My pink Razr, which is thinner than I’ll ever be, bears witness to the time that I was told, “thanks for speaking to me like an adult”, the message dripping with sarcasm even via wireless communication.  To the many, many, many times that I’ve sent a text to the effect of, “I’m sorry.”  Sometimes it was “I’m sorry that I did…..”, and other times it really seemed like I was just apologizing for existing.  I’m sorry I’m such a bad girlfriend.  I’m sorry I make you so very miserable.  I’m sorry I take up so much of your time.  I’m sorry for breathing. 

There are text messages from friends wishing me good luck on jobs and finals.  Picture messages because someone saw something and it made them think of me.  Evidence that I have friends who know and care about my interests.  “I miss you”s and “I want you”s.  1am text messages from oft-intoxicated boys who don’t stand a chance.  Proof that someone somewhere is attracted to me.  So if I did that – if I deleted all evidence that I’ve been loved, and missed, and wanted, and needed, and respected, and thought of – do all of those things cease to exist?  I suppose that’s like asking if losing my undergrad GPA in law school made me dumb (I still haven’t come to a conclusion on this one).  In the past week I’ve had 5 people tell me that I looked different, or they didn’t recognize me.  At my sister’s wedding, several people walked right passed me.  They didn’t recognize me – what does that mean?  I “lost the weight” (I say this like I lost 50lbs) two years ago and have kept it off… so that shouldn’t be the change.  My hair is darker, but not dark enough to render me unrecognizable.  I don’t get it.  What’s to not recognize?  And if a few months and a bottle of Soft Black hair dye can render me unrecognizable, shouldn’t I hold on to anything that can help identify who the hell I am? 

I sat on the B100, svelte wireless phone in hand, and made the decision.  Delete all.  I thought it would be quick like a band-aid – sharp, acute pain that would soon fade into a dull throb.  But it wasn’t.  It was slow.  Not slow and smooth like honey, no, but painstaking and almost slothful.  Slow like poison.  Giving me enough time to think through all of it – if I was prepared to do away with all substantiation of being in love, being hurt, being wanted, being a needy girl; of the person I became briefly to whom I hope to never return, and of the friends who helped bring me back and loved me anyway. 

And I did it – deleted it all.  My size 00 phone is devoid of her casing and purged of her contents.  While I was at it I deleted my entire call list (missed, received, dialed) as well.  Just like starting from scratch

so i'm figuring out this whole "cross-posting" thing... but in the mean time check me out at dana430.livejournal.com  :)