When is goodbye really goodbye?

When you are a part of something, whether it be a church group or just a few buddies that hang with you by the river every weekend, it eventually becomes a part of you. Sometimes these consistencies, especially when they are people, can change you and your perspective of the world and the people around you. That is what makes goodbye's so hard. Every time I had to leave Michael I felt like I had to adjust to a life that didn't belong to me, and when I would see him again, my life would continue as if I had come home from a lengthy trip away from myself.

I didn't realize that the lounge was the one place that I could return to myself and have a break from the loneliness. The people there are like my family. I always avoided thinking about the moment when I would have to put in for my two weeks. It's been two years now, two years of people willing to do everything in their power to be there for me, a concept I wasn't used to until my first day at The Strat. Not many people work in an environment like that. I was and am very fortunate.

I had this same issue when I graduated from school and moved away from my friends in Varsity Choir. We were so tight knit that I literally had to cut some ties so that it wouldn't hurt so much. Everyone back in San Antonio still had one another; they still hung out, goofed off, even recalled music that we sang years before and sang their hearts out together. I wasn't a part of that. I am not a part of that. I had and have university, a new life to embrace, one that I would have preferred to include my old friends and the laughter.

But this seems harder. We are all adults-- not children-- so to pick up and move or start a family or whatever it is that adults do, we can do it. All of us. And that is going to keep us apart. Some of my best friends, coworkers here at the lounge, are graduating. Some are staying though, so I'll still have people to come back to. But the unit, this family, is going to branch out, and eventually those connections will fade and be replaced with new connections, new people.

Then again, it is in my power to keep these connections alive. If I can make a long distance relationship work with Michael, I can accomplish the same task with my friends. There are so many mediums that can keep these ties double-knotted. I suppose I just fear change, when the consistencies are no longer consistent. I have always had anxieties about new environments, experiencing things that I am not used to.

Maybe this isn't goodbye. Maybe these relationships I've built will keep the anxieties away.

Maybe it took me writing this to realize that.

Tonight is my second to last night working here. I am going to try and take in every detail, embrace every encounter, and smile as hard as I can. I want to remember tonight. I want to make it worth remembering.

The country isn't as peaceful as you think

So apparently there is an air born disease effecting the wildlife in the area and my friend Chris told me to expect a horde of zombies to follow, so I should be prepared. Don't worry guys, my dad's display case of guns reassures my safety enough. It's like Left 4 Dead without med kits laying about. (Med kits are the only exception. We are a heavy medicated, well prepared family with war vets, computer techs, bikers and college drop outs. And yes, you may very well find a stash of pills in random places.) I am mostly concerned with my cat Emmy, who was booted outside for the presents she leaves around the house and in strangers' shoes. I thought it was funny. Dad, not so much.

It all started today, while I was in class when Mom saw a raccoon walking down the driveway.

In the middle of the afternoon.

They are nocturnal.

You catching on?

This raccoon was swaying back and forth as it progressed down the hill from the main road with only brief moments of normalcy. One second it seemed perfectly fine, the next it was spazzing out, all twitchy and shit. That is a no go. Obviously something was seriously wrong with it. Her first thought was rabies. Anyone who knows anything about anything would have thought of rabies. You have to know this shit when you move out into the country, especially when you have children.

Well, a phone call to the police and to animal control later, it was beneath the deck in our backyard. With my cat.

A little bit of me died inside when I typed that.

Ahem.

An officer and someone from animal control came out to the property, took one look, and said that they couldn't do anything about it. If they shot at it, there was a chance that the bullet would hit the brick of the side of the house, and that was a no go. They didn't even stick around or try to persuade it out into the open. They just left my mom there with a house full of children and a delirious animal under the deck. Yeah, way to do your friggin jobs guys.

When Dad got home, and this is why I feel very much protected during a potential zombie apocalypse, he went into his room, opened the window, took aim, and fired. (Of course we kept the kids upstairs and distracted them in hopes they wouldn't hear the gun shot.) God. That creature didn't stand a chance. My dad is a badass.

Now we are watching my cat for signs of this disease, a disease that is not rabies. My other animals aren't allowed near her. It's heartbreaking, and there is nothing I can do. I have to walk away when she stares in through the window and meows. It's like I'm sacrificing her for the good of the group or something. To top it all off, I now know that law enforcement and animal control can't do shit out here, and that really sucks. God forbid there is a break in or a hostage situation here.

"Well... the door is locked. We can't get inside. Let's go home boys."

"But sir..."

"There's nothing we can do."

Zombie animals, dead beat people who can't do their jobs...

I can't wait to move to Galveston.

Doesn't Spring Break imply, well, I don't know... a break?

I am going to keep this post vague because I have little to no interest in going into detail about my terribly disappointing Spring Break. Basically, this week has been the shits. Instead of trying to salvage what little time I have left of it, I am trying not to allow myself to fall apart.

One of my best friends is leaving to Michigan in order to jump start her life. The family dog is seriously ill and in response to that my Dad fell apart. Michael is so busy with school we can only manage a real conversation twice a week if we are lucky. My job's pay is less than decent but I love the people there too much to find something closer to home that pays more.

But I shouldn't elaborate. I know you just got back from Cancun or the Bahamas or some other tropical destination with sand in your crack, liquor on your breath, a sweet tan, a rockin' bod and a sweet story to share and really aren't interested in a sob story that will ruin your glow.

I am not bitter at all.

Then again...

All it takes is a Skype conversation and all the bad goes away. You can keep your Spring Break memories. I've got this guy.

What day is it again?

I have been putting off this post all day. At first I was excited. I logged on as soon as the shouts of children outside of my door and the crash of plastic toys colliding became too much for my REM cycle and it decided that enough was enough. I was still a little out of it and I vaguely even remember logging on. That's how pumped I was to post today. My subconscious acted for me.

Then I saw the topic that I was supposed to write on and I chose to study instead.

Now that I am finished studying and have already put off writing with another DVD of That 70's Show, I am faced with a dilemma presented on the computer screen I so frequently visit. Either I write the truth for fear that my friends and family will be exposed to something I've managed to keep somewhat under wraps, or let loose a secret that defines a period of my life that I am not very proud of.

So here's the topic: A time I thought about ending my own life. 

Here we go.

Freshmen year of high school was a disaster. The school year started off with a phone call from a friend telling me that my ex-boyfriend from two years previous had died in a car accident. I took his death very hard. What made it worse was that specific friend reminding me that before his passing, he had planned to ask her out. I was bitter toward her for a while after that. His interest in her was all she seemed to recollect about his life, and she flaunted it. But every night that led up to his funeral, I was wounded by the regret of not trying harder to make it work between us. Maybe then I would be happy like I was when I was with him. Maybe then he wouldn't have sneaked out for a late night drive.

I decided not to attend his funeral for one reason: the last time I saw him, he was smiling and laughing and was asking me to write something in his yearbook. I don't remember what I wrote, but I hope it reminded him of what a wonderful person I thought he was. I knew that if I went to his funeral, that would have been the last picture of him ingrained in my memory, and I didn't want that for either of us. He deserved to be remembered in the way that I remember him now.

As time heals most, it healed me, but only after a series of events occurred that warped my views on life, friendship, and love. My attitude had darkened and remained so for an extended period of time. My friends had little patience for it and cut contact with me. I was encouraged to end my own life by someone whose heart I had apparently broken. My friends practically dared me to do it, but did not fail to mention that they would not be attending my funeral if I had done so. I guess they had a different philosophy on funerals than I had. My parents' relationship was facing a rough patch that was not easily overcome. All of this hit me like a train, and I deteriorated beneath it.

Mom mentioned therapy. My therapy was my writing. Staring off into space helped too sometimes.

The idea of ending my own life occurred frequently during that time. With my friends gone, I had no one to talk to about what I was going through. They had all blocked my number and ducked away from me in the halls at school. The only person who had stuck around to pick up the pieces was an ocean away and was the boyfriend of one of the girls who stopped talking to me. He tried his best to keep his interactions with me under wraps for fear of more unwarranted conflict, but eventually I didn't hear from him either. I fantasized about dying, and out of spite did I envision all of these people attending my funeral, feeling sorry for every time they had ever hurt me or left me alone to deal with myself. I wanted to die to pass my suffering onto them. I wanted them to feel the way that they had made me feel, but worse. I felt so much and so little at the same time. It is an emotion as twisted and as undefinable as love. You simply have to experience it to know what it is.

That was when I cut myself. At school, I saw lines embedded in teen wrists all of the time and I scoffed, believing that the cuts were a cry for attention, that they were pathetic.

And they are cries for attention. But when I cut myself, I wasn't doing it in hopes of bleeding out, and I wasn't doing it so that people at school or at home would see them. I did not wear the cuts like trophies as some people do.

I hid them.

I was ashamed of them.

I hated them.

I hated myself for making them.

I was just so desperate for some other form of pain to distract me from what I was feeling. It worked too. For a moment I wasn't so focused on losing a friend, being lonely, being ignored, or possibly living in a divided house. I was focused on the shame of making myself bleed for the sake of having a temporary release from everything. The worst is that the scars are still there, always reminding me of what I went though and what I was willing to do to myself to escape from it.

Recently I had a friend who mentioned wanting to chug bleach. I was on that situation like nobody's business. My own experiences led me in that direction. I had to be the friend that I didn't have so many years ago. But when I called my other friends to ask if they had heard anything from this friend, I received a series of aggravating responses.

"Oh, she'll be fine. She does this a lot."


"It doesn't mean anything. She won't do it."


"Well do you want me to go over there? ...I'm kind of busy."

I was disgusted. I was angry. I was terrified. And it reminded me of when I was crying out for help and no one showed up to do so because they didn't take me seriously enough to be concerned for me.

My advice here is directed to those who have a friend who is in the rut and obviously needs help. Do not ignore them, because their cries for you could be communicated in different ways. Maybe they get mad at you more often. They might even yell at you. They might even ask you to leave them alone. But do not let them get to the point of wanting to die. They may fight you the entire time, and they could hate you after all is said and done, but as a friend you did your job. You kept them alive. You don't get a trophy for doing so, but helping a friend overcome a trial like that should be good enough.

Ways of contacting me are littered all over this damn site. If you are or feel alone and are facing something that seems impossible to overcome, please, email me. Talk to me. If the people around you fail to be a friend, I will gladly step in and substitute for them. Remember, help comes in many forms. I may not be able to offer physical consolation, but as a writer, I will gladly offer to you my words.

So now you know.

(Okay, I know. I fail at following directions. That is why I drove boss man back at work insane during my first month at the lounge. But I am sorry kids. I put too much effort into this, so the rules of the challenge are just going to have to be broken. Plus, I read the challenge while half asleep. You can't blame me. But don't worry, I will cover religion tomorrow. Maybe. I would rather talk about THIS than religion right now. Stupid funeral protesters can kiss my gay friendly and soldier supporting ass.)

Inspiration intercepted by God punching me in the stomach

I woke up yesterday with a fire in my fingers. I got out of bed with this craving to write and write until my hands were semi-disfigured. You never want to go all the way when it comes to disfigurement. That's serious shit.

It was a lot of writing that I was willing to do right then, which is surprisingly helpful considering that I've been working on a novel for the last six months and have had little inspiration. I think that I could have finished the entire book yesterday if my stomach wasn't attacked by what felt like millions of flesh eating parasites. It was painful and even though it lasted for only a few hours, I was out of commission all day in the creativity department. Thus, no blog post was written and no progress was done on the book. I did discover, however, something worth while about my relationship with my parents.

"Need a bucket?" Mom called from the stairs.

"No. Not yet," I groaned.

"Not yet?! Girl, you'd better make it to the bathroom. You're not five anymore. Get it on the carpet, I kick your ass."

"Kick her ass? You'd be too busy gagging. I would be the one kicking her ass," Dad interjected upon hearing what Mom said.

I guess I'm too old for PARENTAL LOVE AND NURTURING!

A not so Merry Christmas after all

My brief hiatus from Blogger was justified I assure you. I say this with extreme distaste because after being forced back into Texas against my will and due to the many brief instances of bad luck that followed, I was pretty set on something going my way. Just a little bit. It's the holidays. So I thought that Mike flying down from New York on Sunday would have satisfied my desire for something good to happen. But I was wrong. You see, shit cloud decided to disguise itself as a blizzard and poo snow all over the Northeast instead, keeping Mike stranded at the airport and unable to fly at all because the planes were grounded. There was nothing that we could do. Ugh.

I took it hard at first. The night that he was supposed to fly in I kept taking note of the time, counting down to 6:14 when his plane was supposed to land. The wait was unbearable because I knew that reality wouldn't set in until 6:14 had come and gone. When it did, the sadness was somewhat alleviated. Amber came over with wine and whiskey and stayed to raise my spirits. My parents tried to make me feel better by making me laugh. They all tried so hard. We played board games, sat outside and talked. But my mind wandered to more creative ways to make the situation feel even more unmanageable. The entirety of the night I couldn't help but think, "Mike could be sitting next to me right now" or "Mike would have laughed at that too." Later that night when everyone retired to their rooms, I thought "he should be sleeping next to me tonight."

Fuck you snow.

The next day when Amber left I found that I had little motivation to take the time to do anything productive. I immersed myself in video games and liquor, which was what I did the previous night minus the video games. I was supposed to be taking care of my apartment situation, which is a mess. I also needed to drive into town to get my Jeep inspected. There are a variety of things that I was supposed to be taking care of, but all I wanted to do was sleep and wait until after Thursday so the "what ifs" would go away.

Now that it's Wednesday I'm feeling alright- well, in a relatively better state than before I suppose. Booze, friends, and laughs were involved. Many laughs. An entire night dedicated to nostalgia and a good time. Now I understand why Mike's schedule fills up so fast when we're not together. Distractions are key to escape. I envied him for that for a while, but now that I got my own taste of what it is like to run away from the situation for a night, I can't be upset anymore. He's hurting too.

I figured that a week of posts dedicated to the sadness I've been experiencing would really force some of my readers away. No one likes a downer. So I figure the best way to go about getting over it is to write it out in one post and move on to bigger and better things. Funnier things. Things that make no sense. Y'know, the usual shit I rant about. But in the end this is a Blog about my life and right now things aren't going smoothly. So here's my crash ya'll. The lowest of the low. Everyone has been telling me that my luck can only get better from here, but that was frequently preached after the New York incident so I am preparing myself for the worst. It can always get worse. But that does not mean I'm not hoping for things to get better.

In the end, I still have Michael. I still have love. That's all that matters.