Category Archives: mess of life
This post is going to go in Mexico’s page, in the Girls section after it appears here.
*Disclaimer* Feel free – anyone who doesn’t understand what the hell I’m doing – to un-follow this blog. It’s potentially going to be weirder than a SI.FI movie (though notably, maybe not as weird as Sharknado; c’mon).
The following posting here is a journal entry from 2009. I have been working on a memoir for some years now, and am plugging away at finishing that off. But have also another book I started working on in 2009, and this entry came up after doing some work for that book.
Generally speaking – at least in my case – having Multiple Personality Disorder … dealing with these aspects of myself just constantly brings up trauma I have been trying to avoid looking at for my entire life. Please bear with annoying repetitive stories.
The people listed in the journal entry are several of my “alters” or other personalities/sides that I have been discovering. Some have given themselves names back when I was a little bitty thing, some I have dolled out a name or position to for want of something else to call them. Several of the names here were found in a coloring book, each alternate person claiming a piece of work by signing their name in cornflower blue or Indian red. Anyway…this is the beginning of Mexico’s story…
i’ve started writing “(potential title of memoir style book here)”.
it smells like shit.
it smells like cat shit outside my window, or else one of my cat’s just shat.
now i have a headache, and my jaw aches, and i had to take 3 ginger chews because of my stomache.
i know i need to look at this stuff. i’m trying. but people get fucking NERVOUS!
today i did a picture project.
i looked through a bunch of old pictures and developed piles that i thought looked like different me’s.
a pile of little ‘tiger’s
a pile of denny’s ( i think it was denny, she’s so cute and jodie foster)
there was nellie bly,
and nervous nellie
and cindy or christy who is really a precious little thing
and the eraser.
my sister even recognized the eraser. i told her it was her, and when she saw the last picture (of the group) she said “yep”.
she could tell that pictures of denny were different than pictures of the other girls, not just because the hair was different, but other things. she totally saw it.
nervous nellie seems to be the only one with a big flat spot on her forehead. i guess i must have wrote the ‘shooting myself’ poem about her. (i’ll try to remember to put this poem up later…)
several pictures that i found i cannot find names for.
and there are names still that i haven’t determined a face for.
scritchy. little bird. sandi.
but most disturbing of all is a singular picture of a girl i didn’t recognize. all of these pictures i’ve seen a million times. i’ve seen them in photo albums while i was growing up, or at gramma’s or uncle john’s, and at my own house once they’d been passed on to me.
so i’ve seen this picture before.
but i don’t know the girl.
everyone else i recognized.
oh i didn’t necessarily know the name of the person, but i recognized the eyes, or the expression, or something about the way the person stood, and i could say – even if i didn’t know the name – here, this picture goes with all of these other pictures of that girl.
there are some pictures that are of no one. there is just no one there, and so it is a generic body or a generic girl that is there. tobie said maybe that is after the eraser has come through. so that might be. or maybe the downloader is a separate person than the eraser, and those are pictures of the downloader. i don’t know.
i just know that this one picture of this one girl sort of shocked me. everyone else rang out in my ‘self’ as a me, something familiar, even if old and lost. something recognizable.
this girl wasn’t recognized.
this girl might have been lost.
perhaps she has disappeared.
perhaps she is the poster girl for all the times i’ve been missing: in pictures at school, when yearbooks get signed, when parts of my life mysteriously go missing. maybe she is one of those milk bottle children who go away and are never seen again.
i don’t know who she is.
but she hurt my heart today.
But still, maybe if I had known somehow, how tiring it would be. How mentally un-invigorating it was. Maybe if I’d known that it would make me want to sleep for days, or drink for weeks, or consider taking several illicit drugs at once, maybe I could have prevented my mental instability in the first place. Then again, it’s not like you can explain the pros and cons of creativity versus insanity to a three year old. But it’s a nice idea, to think about what it might be like to have a life where you are not constantly drained of energy and life force. To have a day when you aren’t scrambling to figure out what your own brain is thinking, or where your own thoughts are going. To have a day where you remember what your agenda was, and how to do difficult tasks like walking in a straight line, or breathing through your nose. It’s a challenge just to stay employed when you would rather be playing video games, or watching cartoons on TV while you remain in your pajamas all day and eat nothing but ice cream and pizza. And maybe a bowlful of Doritos. It’s a bit of a stretch to answer questions like “what’s wrong?” or “how are you doing?” when you honest-to-god don’t know the answer. How do you explain to people that you are just a ten year old in a forty year old woman’s body?
So back to the exhausting part. God I feel like I haven’t slept in weeks. People have commented on how bad I look this week, which is always flattering, and even though I’ve felt sick and wondered about having the flu, I reckon it’s mostly lack of sleep. And my therapist says I have dark circles under my eyes that she’s never seen before. Of course she has only known me for about a year, so she isn’t familiar with this routine. The insomnia. The monthly cycles of sleep/don’t sleep; stay up ‘till the Wicked hours of the night, then sleep ‘till noon; go to bed early and wake up too soon and not be able to fall asleep at night. She doesn’t know about these familiar habits; or at least we haven’t emphasized them much to her. She seems to think we need to take our meds, and see our doctor, and maybe that will help. I tried to tell her. I tried to explain that what I needed was a good pint of tequila, or a shot of whiskey, or even just a couple of beers. She laughs. “No, that won’t be good for work,” she says. Who said anything about work? I said BEER. I’m sure I enunciated it properly. B-EE-EEE-R.
I don’t know why they haven’t come up with a discount rate for insomniacs or crazies, verifiable by one’s therapist. I’d like to present a coupon to my nearest liquor store worker: “This Coupon entitles the Bearer to the largest possible bottle of Tequila on the Premises. Said Bearer will receive a 25% discount on purchase of such Bottle, owing to a lack of mental awareness which only said Tequila can replenish. Please consider this a Medicinal Purchase, and Frequent Drinker Miles apply. In dire situations, Beer of choice may be substituted for Tequila, but must then be accompanied by several packs of cigarettes or containers of Hookah tobacco. For any questions regarding the validity of this coupon, or the seriousness of the Bearer’s insanity, first
1. Look at Bearer of Coupon.
2. Notice dazed look on face and vacant expression in eyes.
3. Note the rocking back and forth motion as Bearer re-counts money in pocket for a fourth time.
4. If all else does not convince you, ask for card and number of therapist and call immediately.
i haven’t been much on my Accidental Happiness blog for quite some time. i don’t want to make myself out to be a liar, you know. it’s a lot to live up to; the title. i could see it as a mission statement of my life, as though i’ve commissioned myself to go forth and capture all the unexpected good things that are out there glimmering hope into the dark and dreary world, and sit and ponder them over a good cup of coffee and share them with all of mankind.
and that’s a good thing. and i do that! i find little awesome things that bring me sudden joy, that other people walk right by and fail to notice. i share and post when i come across all those things on the internet that make you cry your eyes out; stories of strangers helping out homeless vets, and children saving puppies from destruction. but lately my “spontaneous happiness” and my “grim reality” have been duking it out in the ring, and i’m very uncertain who’s going to get the KO.
my friend at work (hey you!) likes to say this before she goes in: “Well folks, time to go make doughnuts”. i’m not sure where that came from or why she started saying it – cuz she doesn’t make doughnuts for a living. but that’s how i feel i’ve been living forever: going in circles, trying to sugar coat everything. something difficult happens, and i find the sliver lining, the chance to grow in the situation. someone blows up in my face, and i try to calm them down and steer them to a calmer level, make them feel they’ve been heard, understood, and when they apologize i just say, hey we all have bad days. the whole “when someone hands me lemons, i make lemonade” rule. it seems like i’ve been that way forever.
but the reality is this: i’m a darker brew than just that. i might even be a Palmer. you know, half lemonade half tea. good thing he came up with that whole flavor marriage, and how is it possible no one thought of that before? or did he just market it first?
anyway, not my point. the point is, life is kind of a bad dance class. it’s all two steps forward, three steps back, a stiletto on the instep and an emergency ride to hospital.
something out there – Hollywood, Sweet Valley High, or an angry, violent, alcoholic parent – has convinced me that there is an eventual happy ending to the story. that if i am good enough, pretty enough, skinny enough, or positive enough, life will right itself and give me all my dreams tied up in a pretty bow. but there are ants on every picnic, and thorns on every rose, and believe it or not, i’ve actually cut my fingers on ribbon before, so even my pretty dreams might eventually injure me.
my life right now is full of trying to merge the side of me that seeks love, happiness, fulfillment and joy with the side of me that is stark reality, depressive, prone to cutting and emotionally unstable.
so my accidental happiness blog may seem more like a dark hole for an indiscernible amount of time…but there is much beauty and worth in the pits of man, and i intend to find it.
look out Darth Vadar; i’m coming to the dark side.
i may have just resolved an ongoing dilemma i have struggled with for years.!.
i don’t want to call myself a perfectionist. my house looks like a tornado touched down, or a collectibles paradise, depending on your perspective. i screw up at work all the time, forgetting things i should remember, making messes here and there, and hearing selective bits of instruction rather than the whole. seems to me a perfectionist would be doing all these things, well… perfectly!
but like a perfectionist, i am very hard on myself. i expect great things from me, and on a sort of unrealistic scale. not that i should find the cure for cancer, because i’m not in the medical field; or that i should discover the fix-it-all for global warming, for same reason. i just always have this nagging, overhead feeling that i am responsible for … stuff. that the world is waiting for me to do something amazing, and if i fail to live my day properly, the fragile balance of the universe will be thrown off balance and must just kill not only mankind, but God as well!
but since i’ve never really figured out what my “calling” is, or what i’m “supposed” to be doing with my life, i have the constant pressure of rescuing everything around me, and the ever-present feeling of impending doom and failure.
some people might say i have a Messianic complex. or point out that my alcoholic father and whack-a-doo upbringing clearly make me just an “average” stereotypical kid from self-destructive, narcissistic parents.
true, that. but hopefully, maybe, i have come up with a miraculously easy mantra for myself, that is both ridiculously obvious, and impossibly profound.
this hard and long winter i have been lazy and enjoying my couch more than my workout videos. oops! but today i was actually engaged in my yoga practice! now, having become a flesh bag of mashed potato instead of muscle, my yoga experience this morning was nothing like it could be, or is normally when i am consistent. and normally i would chide myself for this, and yell a bit about how un-fit my thighs are, or how i can’t believe i don’t work out more consistently, or what a blah blah blah blah blah. you know, just little reminders that i still haven’t saved the world or managed to change the oil in my car.
but i sort of out of nowhere said to myself: “this was a good workout for who i am today”.
now this may not sound earth shattering to you, although it is a nice warm, fuzzy kind of bullshit sounding new age type of thing you can throw around when you feel like crap but really want to pretend you are enlightened.
but for me – someone with multiple personalities – this is the greatest thing to come out of my brain since that last really cool dream i had! because honestly, i never know what each day will bring…
for someone like…NOT me, it might be different. you might have a goal, like going back to school, or running a 5K, or whatever, and meeting that goal can be tough. kids to feed, bosses to please, classes or schedules or house cleaning…tons of stuff shoves its importance into your face and it takes a strong will to reach and complete a goal set for oneself.
for me, it’s kind of an amusement park, or a crime scene. because i have more than one distinctive and developed personality, i have different interests. and i might really really really want to work on a book i’m writing, but if i wake up a little fella – well i might just have to play video games all day instead. or i might wake up a grumpy one, and then i want to be physical, or active, or just watch Dexter all day. or i might just turn into someone who can’t spell or think very well because she doesn’t have the same language skill set that my writer mind has.
goal accomplishing becomes very tricky for me, and i walk around feeling like i haven’t done much of anything ever, because every one of my personalities feels stunted or gypped out of some really rewarding END of the task.
but at least this mantra addresses that; i can just acknowledge that for THIS day, for THIS me, i have done well.
and then maybe tomorrow i can save the world…
today i’m feeling worthless.
i’m feeling a fool.
i fall in love for no reason, with people that can’t be loved by me. i hope for impossible things and believe in a mish.mash of curios. i spend my time on things that i wish really mattered and impacted people, but in reality probably just comfort my anxious soul that feels like it’s wasted its life on stupid things like paying bills, fixing vehicles and dealing with crazy people at work.
i’m feeling broken, and tired, and as though i have finally recognized that i’m only a speck in an ocean of life, so now i have to ask myself if what i do or think or feel really even matters.
but really, when it come right down to it, i just need another cup of coffee.
Thank you to all of you who have started following my blog since the post “Flying Ford Anglia” was posted. I’m glad you all enjoyed the post and started following, but a fair warning…you may not know what you’ve gotten yourself into.
I like to write, and I like to imagine myself a writer, and sometime I manage to come up with something that is witty or curious or just off the wall enough to make someone laugh. However, this blog isn’t all full of crafted phrases and thought out ideas; it isn’t always something that deserves a thumbs’ up or a LIKE. It is full of angst and swear words; crabby responses that can’t be voiced in front of a real person; minor ponderings of a soul gone astray. It may interest you, it may not; but I wanted to let you know right off that it is ALL over the place.
But primarily, this blog is about my struggle and/or ease finding happiness in a crazy mixed up world. This world is so chaotic now – what with random terrorism being more common place than shocking, and children mowing down their playmates with semi-automatics. I don’t really know how anyone manages to go through this life without an occasional panic-attack, but I’ve been assured by some that they’ve never experienced one.
Not true for me. In fact, lately I’ve been having all kinds of anxiety. My heart pounds in my throat, and I can’t sleep through the night. I’ve developed dark circles under my eyes, and l have a haunted face that I wear around the house. You probably can’t tell this when I’m at work; I try hard to keep a stiff upper lip and carry on. I smile and laugh and offer friendly service. I go out of my way to help or nag, and sometimes complain about people that annoy me. But inside lately is a belly of acidic juices churning to the beat of grumpy music. Inside I’m a bucket of nerves that are like little live wires cut free from the electrical pole, squirming around, sparks a’ flyin. I walk around looking like a normal (albeit odd) adult human being, but inside I’m raw and just a little thing. In fact, I’m scared to death.
I sort of suspect that this is because of the third grade. For those of you new to my scene, I have multiple personality disorder, and I’m struggling with working through that rather large can of worms. Presently the worms are all coming from third grade, I think.
Third grade is an elusive situation. I can’t really remember anything. I have pretty much blocked the whole year out, and know only primary basics; like we lived with my grandmother that year, and my older sister chose to sleep and hang out in the garage, up in a pile of boxes that were stacked on top of each other reaching almost to the top of the garage ceiling. We had moved out of a house we were renting, and whatever we could stuff of our belongings went into my gran’s garage, and my older sister buried herself in there like some kind of little mouse nestled in wood shavings. And I only know this fact because she recently told me about it.
The stuff I know from that year in my life is that I was sleep walking a lot, and the next year I developed an ulcer, chronic headaches, nose bleeds, and asthma. And the fact that pretty much the whole year (minus one or two vague memories) is obliterated from my memory makes me think something was pretty scary at that time in my life.
So all of that to say, right now – with my heightened anxiety over nothing, or little things – I sort of think that third grade personality is wanting to come out, wanting to deal with her stuff.
And it’s freaking me out. I’ve spent my whole life squishing down bad memories and scary monsters. I’ve spent a great many years lying to myself that there are no skeletons in my closet, and bolting it up just to be sure. I am scared to death of the memories of a little nine year old girl making their way into my life, and making a shambles of my existence.
But I guess, to be who I need to be, and to embrace the beauty of the darkest side of my soul, I must.
So hang on if you want, follow if you dare, the ride may be bumpy, I just don’t know…
i was going to do a different blog than this one; a zen-do-da blog (see link for more on zen-do-da if you don’t know what that is)
i was all set to be blissful and encouraging and uplifting. i’ve read The Secret, you know, and other books like that. i DO believe that we have the option and power to make our lives what we want. sort of. i mean, i believe that changing our thoughts for the better equals finding and receiving better things. but this blog went south on me…sort of literally.
so i’m in the bathroom (hey we all poop, there’s a book about it)
and i’m reading one of these happy books, telling me that i’m in control. usually in these situations (moments of … reclining in the restroom) i’m working a Sudoku puzzle. i know, i know, TMI. whatever. but i’m out of puzzles for this purpose, so i’m reading this feel good book and making notes with my little red pen. and i’m all “la la la, life is good” when i drop my pen down the toilet. for real??
and i’m wondering to myself: how does an artist or writer apply the ideas and beliefs of the Secret to his life? and i’m hoping any of you followers out there will join in on this as a discussion. because The Secret poses a dilemma for those of us in the art industry.
if i were a professional bowler, or a mail delivery agent, or a worker in any one of a million different fields, i could see how The Secret thinking could improve my life and my productivity. but for those of us who are writers and artists, how do we make this work?
if you haven’t read The Secret, i highly recommend you do. otherwise you will have no idea what i’m talking about here, and that’s no fun at all. basically the premise is that what you think is what you get. if you put out a bunch of negative thoughts and energy, that’s what you are bringing right back to you. if, on the other hand, you are putting out love, and happiness, and good thoughts, you will be getting back same.
ok, you may or may not agree with all that. that we will save for another blog.
this blog wants discussion.
if i’m a writer, i can’t just sit and write about a girl picking daisies all day. boring. then she goes and walks along the beach, and finds a million dollars in a packet of 10’s and 20’s, non sequentially numbered and wrapped in a pink bow, so she doesn’t even have to claim taxes if she doesn’t want. and along came mr. right, you get the picture. i can’t do this. as an artist, i CAN’T sit and look at the beautiful all day long, because that isn’t where all the heart tearing emotions lie.
the heart tearing emotions, the things that MOVE us are in the dark! they are lying in a gutter, homeless and underfed. they are sitting at the table with a morning cup of coffee, crying over their mashed up marriage or their dying soul. they are tying themselves up in sheets at night from tossing and turning over their nightmares. THIS is where the interest is for a writer, or painter, or a poet. the angst. the pain. the agonizing loneliness of life.
because we all feel it at times, and tapping into that commonality is magical, and links us all together till we are one spool of thread.
so all you blogging authors and feely artists out there, how do we make The Secret work for us, without losing the inspiration that grief and sorrow provide?
Thus far, August is proving to be a rather drippy month here in the middle of Michigan. Which reminds me of that old Camp Granada song, and the promise that fun will be had once the weather clears up. And once they find that boy that’s gone missing.
Which is sort of how my experience of summer camp always went. My older sister – who has yet to realize that she has been living a somewhat charmed life – always loved summer camp. Looked forward to it every year. She would come home with these awesome stories about camp life that would send even the most flat-footed city kid into wilderness withdrawal. To hear her describe it, the summer camp she went to was about two yards away from the kingdom of heaven, and since they sold frosty cans of Mountain Dew in the snack shop she wasn’t that far off.
My sister has always been a popular and persuasive girl. While I was sort of an offbeat, spastic loner, Angie was all smiles, giggles, and unprecedented social savvy. She could befriend anyone immediately, despite the ginormous owl glasses she wore. And that shouldn’t be held against her, because giant, hubcap sized glasses were all the rage when we were junior high types. So despite her legally blind status, she had all the right pieces to play with: cool magnifying eyeballs, Farrah Fawcett feathered hair, and boobs the size of Texas. So she was POPular.
One year while she was enjoying the gloriousness of camp life, my sister and her BFF got a care package in the mail. Since kids were there for a whole week, and most parents rejoiced in the send off but missed their offspring just the same, there was a big “mail room” time every day. Kids sat around Indian style while a camp person shouted out names read from envelopes with hearts and stickers all over them. These letters came from moms and dads, grannies and aunties, and also girlfriends back home who wanted to make sure you weren’t making out with NEW girlfriends. Lots of kids got care packages as well, full of candy bars, snack foods, clean socks maybe. This particular year Angie and her friend got a package that had both of their names on the front. Sort of.
This package was labeled “Squeakers and Peekers”, and addressed to the camp site. The ’emcee’ had a good time with this, I’m sure, however I wasn’t there so can only imagine him calling out these names in a quizzical and humored type of voice. And giggling ensued, I’m sure. Angie and her friend went to retrieve the package, and the emcee asked about these nicknames. Well of course, my sister was Peekers, because of her giant plastic glasses. And once the emcee picked on the two girls for a bit, “Squeakers” started laughing, and the teeny tiny high-pitched giggle answered that question as well. So the rest of the week all the campers – and counselors as well – called out to them as they walked around, “Hey Squeakers! Hey Peekers!”. Instant fame and popularity, just from a package in the mail. Of course, the fact that they were both cute as hell and silly as loons didn’t hurt either.
Her other stories were just as charming and exciting; tales of stringing their counselor’s bra to the top of the flag pole, swimming for hours in little bikinis by the pool, and night time singing sessions by the big fire. Camp sounded so amazing when she talked about it. I was confused about how she always managed to get to camp, since we always checked the “poor as church mice” section of the Census. In fact, our official family motto was, “Money doesn’t grow on trees; that’s why we have this here metal detector”.
Luckily for us the church we were mouses at had nifty things like a used clothing box, and apparently a summer camp tuition account. Or maybe that’s just what my sister told me. Of course she lied to me all the time, but I actually went to summer camp a couple of times myself, so I tended to trust her on this one. Which was my big mistake.
Summer camp was in the mountains of California, which is where I grew up. I can only imagine you thinking I’ve lived in Michigan all my life, and claim to have been poor while I flew to sunny California every year for summer camp. Not so. I grew up in Southern California, in the funky part of Long Beach, and by funky I mean run down, bars on your windows, take you garden hose in at night or it will disappear kind of funky. We didn’t have a college fund set aside for anyone, or a retirement plan in the making. We were more of a “pork and beans three days a week” kind of family. But since the powers that be had smiled on us, summer camp became a reality for me as well.
And it all started off well. I experienced the fun story telling, song singing experience in the bus that Angie told me about. I spent hours riding along other stinky junior high kids, playing 21 questions, or slug bug, or whatever other travel games you play on the road. And I experienced the majestic and magical McDonald’s stop before we hit camp. Living in Long Beach in the seventies and eighties, I had no idea there were these things called MOUNTAINS close by. At that time Long Beach was under a constant layer of smog, which I innocently thought was nice beach side cloud cover. Once we were far enough along in our travels, we hit the famed McDonald’s stop and I knew what Angie was talking about. All the hype was real! Beautiful mountains on the horizon, that I could actually see with my eyeballs! French fries made of magical ingredients. Rowdy kids running loose in a confined environment. I couldn’t wait to get to camp!!
Of course, my sister’s life was vastly different than my own, and I didn’t take that into account. While her experience was all summer fun, popularity and joyful singing to the Lord, mine was more like, I don’t know, a bad episode of the Three Stooges. My “best friend” didn’t run around and giggle with me, like Peekers and Squeakers did. She actually abandoned me right about an hour after we got there and went to find herself a new boyfriend and some “cool” people to hang out with. But that’s OK, because I liked solitude. And all the time alone gave me a chance to reflect on nature. Except that I was allergic to all this nature, and spent the better part of the night hours trying to find a way to breathe that didn’t involve my runny nose. But since I had asthma as well, and the trees were agitating my asthma, breathing was just right out.
And the next day, when we all were “supposed” to play kickball, they didn’t seem to want to let me off because of my asthma. It’s like the counselors I had were the Fun Police, and no kid was allowed to avoid fun for any reason. Even asthma. So I told them I was pigeon toed, and tried to explain the logic of NOT playing kick ball when you have this malady. Soon I was running the bases eating lots of dirt and wondering how Angie had so many great stories. But she had good stories about the pool, so I could always try that.
And I did. Only to see some guy hyperventilating after a swimming competition, and I didn’t have anything as fancy or expensive as an asthma inhaler, so swimming suddenly seemed less fun and more stressful. Maybe I could try the hiking part of the fun. Or did that involve twisting your ankles? Because no matter how short or long the distance, I would twist my ankles. I loved to run, but had these inexplicably weak and wobbly ankles that made me a no-go for soccer, track or – look at that – hiking! And running someone’s bra up the flag pole didn’t happen in my cabin, though I thought about giving it a try. When I thought of the bras in the area, it made me look in my own suitcase which, to my dismay, was packed with way fewer panties than I had thought. Which made me think of taking a shower, except that someone had barfed in the shower the other day, and since the plumbing was pretty slow and horrible, the barf just lay on top of the five inches of water climbing closer toward your knee caps, so wearing dirty underwear seemed somehow justifiable.
I went through the list of awesome stories my sister had told me about camp, wracking my brain for an activity that might work for me. And finally, by the end of the week, I had found my thing. Foosball! in the rec room of the snack shop. Here I could consume sugary, carbonated beverages, bump up next to other un-showered children, and play air hockey, table tennis, or the wondrous game of non-ankle-twisting soccer-with-plastic-people all day long if I wanted. And I wanted. Because I needed to have something about summer camp that was my own fun memory, even if it involved air conditioning, junk food and indoor allergens.
Ahhh…nothing quite like summer.
i’m in one of my people today.
having DID is quite an interesting life. whether you know you have it or not.
today i believe i’m functioning in a personality that i’ve had since i was a wee thing. although whichever personality i use to write is conflicting with her right now, because the personality on my face doesn’t use quippy writing style.
i call her Rocky.
one day i’d like to make a book about these interesting people inside me. for now this blog will suffice. i finally bought myself a printer/copier/scanner, and will soon begin the interesting project of scanning old pictures of me onto my blog.
may not sound all that thrilling to anyone, but as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.
after my uncle died i had a massive influx of new pictures in my life. he was an amateur photographer, basically having a decent talent that he used mainly as a hobby. i have started a number of blogs about this interesting person with his interesting hobby, but i don’t think i’ve ever put them up.
because they are too difficult.
when i got these pictures it freaked my shit out, so to speak. because some of the pictures reveal more to myself than i want to know.
but these pictures also document my life as a multiple. like i said…i plan on making a book of this, because i am not aware of any other book where you can SEE the different personalities right from the lens’ point of view. and there they are…several of me in one shoot, popping out from behind the same set of eyes, but clearly very different.
anyway, i’m one of these people today. one of these hidden little me’s that people forget are there. that I forget are there. my face is different. i am usually wide eyed and expressive, and today i’m like Botox face, all flat forehead, emotionless eyebrows, facial muscles taking a bit of a coffee break. and my brain isn’t over multi-tasking, which it usually is. i’m kind of one track right now. i’m kind of distant and watching and uninvolved. but i can’t trace this person’s thoughts as well as i can others.
wonder how this day shall pan out…
i push through the door with my hand flat. only it isn’t the door, it’s the window, and my arm goes right through it and immediately starts to bleed. i’m thirteen, and full of energy, but in a repressed sort of way. misdirected energy – like every other thirteen year old – and loads of angst. i live in a dumpy house with a poor family and a father who drinks too much. the days are warm but full of dense, smoggy air that makes it hard to enjoy perpetual sunshine.
my sister is busy teasing me. she doesn’t need a reason; do they ever? this time she is teasing me because i sort of have a boyfriend, and he called to talk nervously on the phone with me. he’s cute, and shy, but i don’t know why he’s my boyfriend. we don’t know each other except from one class in junior high. why did he even get a crush on me? my confusion makes me curious to understand the situation, so i tell him yes i’ll ‘go with him’.
but not now. i already said yes a week ago, and this is just a phone call that my sister interrupts to pick on me and call my boyfriend ‘Snookums’. (his last name is Snook) (but this is way before Snookie came around, so don’t get that confused)
i’m a bit embarrassed on the phone.
a. i don’t want him to know that i kind of like him, and i also don’t want him to know that i’m very apathetic about the whole thing at the same time. i actually have more of a crush on his best friend than i do on him; the other one just took too long.
b. i don’t usually have boys call me up. my sister is the one who has all the experience with the other sex. she has make out sessions all the time, and i’m just a goofy, crooked toothed tomboy. i’m surprised by the attention but don’t want to come off like an idiot.
i could punch my sister right now for making me nervous and awkward on the phone, but i kind of want to hug her. she never really pays any attention to me. she is cool and i’m just the little sister. a nobody. too shy to make any real friends, too hyper for most standard people that actually walk with their feet touching the ground, and too crazy for people outside of the drama club. i’m almost a full blown embarrassment for her i’m sure. but today she is bothering to talk to me, as though i might have something to offer in exchange.
so i’m happy, as i set the phone down and chase my sister outside. she tries to slam the door on me, but i’m quicker than she remembers, and catch the window with my palm.
which of course shatters the window and sends shards of glass in every direction. now that i’m breathing hard and giggling, i will have to concentrate on avoiding the glass all over everywhere, since i’m barefoot as usual. it IS California, shoes are not required. my father will make us pay for the window with our allowance, but it’s a good investment. no window would mean burglars coming in to steal my important Hello Kitty sticker collection, so i gladly shell over the funds. my sister probably talks her way out of her half of the window. she’s like that. and she can’t possibly know she will leave me with a small scar on my hand to remind me of this precious sibling interaction; where as usual, i come away bloody or broken and she comes out of the whole thing unscathed. that’s to be expected.
and while my boyfriend is completely confused about the whole situation, he is still on the phone. too bad for him i enjoyed the chase with my sister more than his conversation.