Identity Crisis

Can I tell you one of my deepest, darkest fears, the one thing upon which I make my fate hang on a daily basis?

Kids, I'm terrified that I will fail at school. Because this would mean that I was, in fact, a failure.
First of all, let's define our terms. For me, failing is pretty much getting anything below an A-. That's the cut. And last semester, I made four Bs and one A.
See the problem?
Let's review some ancient history.
I grew up in a home where the intellect was prized above all things. To this day, my father shouts things like "Nerd power!" when I or my brother does something smart. And I was born with nerdy genes: my mother graduated from Welsley, my father got his doctorate at MIT. It's always been an unwritten rule that I Will Do Well in School.
I first remember being conscious of grades at age six. This was first grade, and we got real grades this year, not just checks or minuses. When we got our report cards, we were all marched down the hall to have them signed by the principal. And there, I noticed an important fact: some kids got Blue and Gold stickers and some kids' stickers were only red. - Didn't take me long to figure out what that meant.
In the third grade, I remember my first bout of grade-induced anxiety. I was sitting at my table, waiting to be called up to the teacher's desk to learn my grade in math. I twitched. I figeted. Finally, she called my name and I flew up to the desk, learned my grade, and sank back into my chair, murmuring, "Thank God it's not a B." For me to take The Lord's Name in Vain in the third grade meant things were pretty serious.
In fourth grade, I transferred to a priavate school because I "wasn't challenged enough" in public school and there I quickly established my place in my class of 12 students as 'the Smart One.' I may have been pudgy and socially awkward, and worst of all completely incapable of hitting a softball when lobbed slowly over the center of homeplate, but by golly, could I read! I read constantly, pretty much anything my mother would let me (we had v. strict book rules), during lunch, at recess, and any spare moment, because I had no friends, but I did have a brain. As time went on, things improved somewhat, and I at one point I even had friends, but my role as the Smart One never changed. It was the only thing I had to offer.
And then came high school. I went to a (somewhat) prestigious private "Christian" school that was supposed to offer a good education, altho that claim remains dubious at best. They weren't really interested in educating you so much as puffing up their own reputation, and thus they kept a few kids around to boost their test scores and left the rest of the school to be planned by a group of socialite parents who had waaaaay too much money and time on their hands. However, among the test score-boosting kids I met my nemesis: my dear, darling friend Anne. Anne is one of those amazing (disgusting) people who is good at Everything. And I mean everything. She sketches beautifully, plays the classical guitar, dances (on the drill team, in high school) AND managed to score over a 1400 on the SAT in the eighth grade.
When I took the SAT in seventh grade, I didn't even break 1000. And thus, the moment I met her my world, my role as the Smart One was shattered. She was now the smart one, and I was just me, the . . . ?

I've been struggling to figure that out, ever since. And even though my role as the Smart One has been shattered, I still cling desperately to the broken pieces, trying somehow to find signficance through school. In college I was surrounded by smart friends who got 'smart' grades and even now I struggle with feeling inferior to them. Because, at the end of the day, I have discovered that in my heart of hearts I believe that if I can't be the best at something, then I have nothing to contribute.
Which brings us back to my four Bs. Clearly, if one makes four Bs, one is not the best. And if I am not the best, what am I?

Drama Rama

So today, my Uber-Conservative Evangelical College was visited by Some People, whom I'm sure some of you have heard of, the Equality Bus Trip People. (Can I share with you that I am not paranoid At All. Nope, not one bit. I just like to give people really, really vague names.) Now, I have to tell you, I was a wee bit scared. First, I was scared, because, well, said people are contending for an 'end to religious and political oppression' to 'LGTB' people (sometimes there is a Q or an I in there, and i'm not quite sure what the I stands for, but anyway, basically non-heterosexual people), and, well, sometimes on TV, people that protest for things like this are a wee bit rabid. So I was scared about that. Then, I was scared because I wasn't sure we could guarantee the civility of all my classmates. Let's just say I was afraid they might be a wee bit rabid, too, only on the other side. Finally, let's be perfectly blunt, I was scared because I've never had a great deal of contact w/ 'LGTB' people, and, call me a homophobe, but I had no idea waht to expect. (Except, of course, just people, but a lot of 'just pleople' scare me, so that doesn't help.)
Anyway, hurrah, it went just fine. Like, it was a little awkward, I'm not gonna lie, espescially b/c they were pretty much coming in saying our school was wrong, and our school was pretty much saying, no, you're wrong. But, we were all very civil, and we had some decent discussions, and things were all fine until Russian Orthodox boy started describing his understanding of salvation, and then one of the students about hit the ceiling with a cry of "That's not what the Bible says!!" Thankfully, however, several other people stepped in, and crisis was averted. Ahhhh.
By contrast, my own home is a battle ground. Gotta love the roommates. ;-) Currently, both the Crazy Roommate and the Happy Roommate feel utterly and horrifically Wronged by the other. Clearly, the other person is Out To Get Them, and, moreover, a horrible person. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, this all started on Sunday, when Happy Roommate (who is currently Not Happy) left a note with a List of Greivances for Crazy Roommate. I might add that these greivances are mostly about the house as a whole, but the note was addressed only to Crazy Roommate and no one else. Yay. So, the house has been on edge every since, with Sane Roommie and I tiptoeing around the house, hopeing to avoid the other two, who wish to bemoan the unfairness of it all to us.
Kids, this sucks.
We're set to have a 'house meeting' soon. In which, honestly, I hope Crazy Roommate and Happy Roommate have a knock-down, drag-out fight, so at least we can all stop pretending that 'everything's fine.' (Like, not that we actually pretend that completely, but we try to.) Maybe if they just have a fight, soemthing will get resolved.
And there I am, the pot calling the kettle black.
In any case, if things get really bad, Sane Roommie and I can just be like, "Y'all are crazy," and run away and live happily ever after.

The Fat Lady Shops

(**N.B.** I am a wee bit hesitant to write this post, for three main reasons. First, after again realizing the number of people who read (i.e. Lurk at ;-)) this blog, I am again made cognizant of the fact that I am not the only person effected by what I write here. Thus, I am a little hestitant to refer to myself as 'fat,' for fear of backlash in my real life. However, regardless of lurkers, I write this blog for me and about my experience, and I defintely experience myself as 'fat.' And, well, if that word offends others, so be it. Secondly, due to reasons already mentioned, I fear this post may seem like a bid for pity, as tho I just feel sorry for myself and want other people to feel sorry for me, too. Well, I suppose that might be true, but I'm not so sure. Again, this blog is for me, written to help me as I experience life. Yes, this particular post may be pitiable, but I don't write to be pitied. Finally, well, let's face it, it's pretty darn embarassing to write about this. I Hate being fat, as everyone already knows ;-), and calling people's attention to this fact is not usually my aim. But this was my life today. And it was embarassing, and hard, and funny, and thus, I'm going to write it down, because I need to.
And, wow, I hope that didn't sound really deffensive.)

Apparently, fat people do not wear dresses. (Let me re-phrase that. Fat women do not wear dresses. Fat men can not wear dresses all they like.) Today's mission was cute sundress/attractive spring attire for upcoming showers, weddings, and Easter. Except, they don't make dresses for fat ladies. Now, I ask you, who thought up this brilliant idea?? Why can fat ladies not where dresses?? Believe me, I realize there are some things that fat people Should Not Wear. For example, tops showing any kind of belly. Or skirts too far above the knee. Both of these reveal excessive amounts of Fat Roll, and who on earth wants to see that? However, I do not see how dresses fall into this catagory. Dresses almost inherently do not reveal belly, and can be made appropriately long. So why does the regular-lady department have racks and racks of dresses in pretty spring colors, whereas you're lucky if the fat-lady department has even two. It's descrimination, I tell you!
Needless to say, today's search was not-so-successful. I arrived at Robinson's-May and made the embarassing trudge towards the escalator, because the Women's department is tucked away upstairs between Kids and Housewares, I guess so everyone can momentarily forget that fat people need to be clothed, too. (However, I'd think we'd all notice, and not in a good way, if they stopped making fat-people clothes! ;-)) By the way, why do they call it the 'Women's' department?? Admittedly, it's rather preferrable to 'Missy', the name of the normal-sized clothing department. It makes it sound like normal-sized people are slightly androgynous adolescents, and only when you become fat do you become fully in touch with your femininity. Anyway, there I was, but not for long, because there were, like three racks of dresses, and two were displays of the Old Matron Horror, which, clearly, I refuse to wear. (And who thinks it's a good idea to dress fat old women like that, either? I know Fat Old Women aren't exactly anyone's dream to design for, but have some compassion!) At least here there was something, because at Macy's there were no dresses at all. Again, equal rights for Women's!
I did finally find something, but my mother would not be pleased with it, and I'm not entirely, either. A bit too much cleavage, if you know what I mean, espescially for Easter Sunday. Plus, it's so much white fabric that I feel rather Moby Dick-esque, lumbering about like a whale out of water. (Lot's of blubber, too. ;-)) Anyway, we shall see. Come Easter, I must be wearing something, so hopefully I'll find something nice between now and then.
In the mean time, maybe us Plus-Size Girls should start picketing.

Mommy and Me

Well kids, I'm back among the living once again. Mama came, and then she went. That's the nice thing about visits, they come to an end. And yet it's sad, because here's the real deal, kids: I really love my mother. I love her so much! And we are quite alike, she and I. We both love good books, cozy little animals, good art, and safety. (Altho her definition of good art and my definition of good art are a wee bit different.) I enjoy talking to my mother and even enjoy hearing what she has to say (at least some of the time). But, aye, here's the rub: she has also hurt me, down to the very depths of my being, where I cannot even begin to fathom. And to hold that love, and yet that hate of her all in the same place, at the same time, is hard to do. It's espescially hard, considering Good Christian Girls aren't supposed to feel hatred in the first place, much less for their mothers! (And I hope I haven't offended anyone's sensibilities.) I want so badly to think and feel just one thing, to pick one, and go with it! I could hate her, oh so easily! I could say, "F- you," only say it aloud, instead of saying it silently in angry thoughts and gestures, as when I 'eat at' my mother (as tho eating a cookie can really communicate my anger to her). Or, I could take what seems now the easiest way of all, the way I'm used to, the way where I run towards her, and after her, and every which way, always yearning for her approval. Because msot days, I would do anything for it.
For some reason, on her visit, my mother decided to bring up When I Was Depressed In Seventh Grade. I'm not quite sure why this was so necessary, but apparently it was, and so we discussed that horrible time, opening many, Many cans of worms. I even revealed to her, for the first time, that even then, I wanted very much to die. She had thought I was only suicidal when I was older. And, of course, I cried, and, of course, she tried to comfort me, but as she and I sat there, her arms around my shoulders as I sat on the floor, sobbing, I realized that my dearest fantasy could never come true. For some years now, I have fantasized about crawling up into my mother's lap and just sobbing, completely accepted and completely loved. Well, that will never happen. Because, as much as part of me wants to fuse back into my mother, and simply become a little part of her, I can't do it. I'm not her, I'm me. And to 'fuse' with her means giving up myself, means acting like she never hurt me, and I Can't Do That. I just can't.
So instead, I'll try very hard to see and accept my mother just as she is, very flawed, but beautiful.
(P.S. No, I just could not bring myself to use 'fuck' in a sentence about my mother. It just seems so Wrong. So we'll go with 'f-you' instead. ;-))
(P.P.S. I know this is a lot of psychobabble crap. But bear with me. I needed to write this out for my own sake.)

We Who Are About to Die, Salute You

Well folks, tomorrow is M-Day, the day when Mama comes. And, oh lord, I should be flipping out, and part of me is very anxious indeed. However, there's another part of me, a small part, but a strong part that doesn't care, because, miracle of miracles, that part of me is Happy.
Yes, happy, I know you just about fell off your chair. I did too, and all day, I have hardly known what to do with myself. But, my understanding of myself and my mistakes with Boy, and all of my relationships, has given me this amazing sense of relief, and freedom, and Hope. And, good grascious, it's been a long time since we've seen much hope around here.
Today was a crazy day of even more 'clicking' in therapy. I explained all about The Revelation (see below) to Dr. Stacey, which was a crazy whirlwind, and then we took it even further. Why can I not light a scented candle, get my PhD, or date Boy? Well, dear readers, it is simply because I want to do those things. And somehow, deep inside of me, every time I want or need something, a voice inside of me, the voice of my mother, the voice of the 'Moral Monitor,' tells me that I Cannot have it, that because I want it, it must be Bad, and moreover, because I want it, I am Greedy, Selfish, Stupid, a Bad Christian, a Whore, etc., generally a piece of shit. Thus, everything I want, from a graduate education to cute panties, is inherently bad. If I let myself have it, I don't enjoy it, because the Mean Voices spoil it, telling me I"m a whore, etc. If I don't let myself have it, then I am deprived, my needs go unmet, and I run around, ever insatiable. This even fits in with my bingeing, because there I am desperately trying to fill myself, desperately trying to give myself what I need, only food isn't it. So, I go around, "Always hungry, but always full."
Now, kids, I realize that this may seem rather basic and obvious. Or it may seem like my excuse to go buy a Mercedes (because after all, I want it.) That is Not what this means. It simply means that I understand better why I ALWAYS FEEL GUILTY ABOUT EVERYTHING. (And I mean everything, people.)
And maybe, since I understand, maybe I can start on the road to change. Maybe I can someday get what I want, and let it fill my needs, as well. Maybe there is a little hope, a little reason to feel happy.
My heart tells me so, as I feel a little corner of it, a tiny part, opening up slowly to the sunlight, like a butterfly spreading it's wings for the first time.
Please oh please, Fly free!

A Revelation

So, these past couple of days have been my whirl-wind tour through the mysteries of my own attachment, or lack thereof, to the significant people in my life. This may get a wee bit technical, but I'll do my best to explain. Attachment theory simply deals with the infant's attachment to mother in the first two years of life, and posits that later relationships are seriously affected by these early infant/mother interactions. If your mother did not or was unable to care for your needs as a child, the idea is that later in life you will continue to seek after relationships to get those needs met in some way. In seeking this out, people's whose attachments didn't go so well the first time around tend to act in specific ways in their relationships because of past hurt or unmet needs.
So that's the general overview.
This all started yesterday when I was free-associating (ie., day-dreaming) in Dr. Porter's class. (Actually, all this started long before that, but this seems to me to be the best place to begin.) I was goign along, half-heartedly listening to the lecture, trying to stay awake, when I had this sudden fantasy of Dr. Porter taking me in his arms, holding me, and then taking me home to his wife and baby. (I know, this is really weird, bare with me.) Only, the thing of it was, it was Not Sexual. So, being the good little psychologist I am, I was like, what the hell is this about? (Psychologists must use swear words.) I mean, Dr. Porter's a nice guy and all, but why him and why that?
And then for the rest of the evening, it was this massive 'clicking' in my brain, with things all fitting together like crazy.
Why did I want to be held by Dr. Porter? Because I never felt emotionally held as a child. My mother was too depressed, too off in her own little world to handle my emotions; instead, I had to handle hers. From a very young age, I learned that my emotions were 'too much,' that one must not be sad or unhappy, because two people being that depressed was just too much to deal with. So, make sure everything's 'fine,' make sure it's ok, make sure you don't show too much of what's really going on! No one can really handle you, you're too much. So, please hold me, Dr. Porter, please be able to contain me, don't let me be too much for you!
Oh!, but there's more!
Why must it be a man to hold me? Because women are fundamentally unsafe. First, my mother was too fragile to deal with me, and thus when I was sad or angry around her, things quickly became much too frightening for me to handle, because she freaked out and I had to parent her and make her feel better. However, even more importantly, I was molested by a woman, and thus touch from women frightens me to the core, and my whole being screams, "Get away!" That's why it takes me Years to be comfortable with a friend giving me a hug. Add to all this mix that my father was completely unavailable to me when I was little, and you have some crazy emotional crap!
So where does Boy enter into all of this? Oh so easily.
When I found you, you were my first 'secure attachment,' the first person who ever came even remotely close to meeting all these unmet needs, screaming from inside me. The problem of it is, that once your safety and grace overcame my barriers, my needs came out like a flood which no one, or at least no person, could ever fill. I was (and am) insatiable, looking desperately again and again and again for unconditional love, acceptance, and delight. You delighted in me in a way my mother never had. And I ate it up. And I wanted more. The problem being that you couldn't give me more, because it wasn't yours to give.
And then I became bonded to you out of fear. I was desperate to keep you, so desperately afraid of rejection and abandonment. And I began to use you as well. Oooooh, I am very ashamed of that, but it's true. I couldn't make myself feel happy, so I used you as my upper, fishing for compliments, fishing for kisses. I am so sorry. I hope you can forgive me. I was so desperate, and I sucked the life out of you, sucked every bit of love and affection I could find. But my needs don't make it right.
I could never understand why I was so jealous of every girl you talked to, and why it made me so angry when you went out with your friends. Oh!, I was so bitchy in my heart! I mean, a boy needs some friends, after all! But, oh!, I felt so hurt and rejected by it because I wanted All Of You. Just the parts you should and could give me were never enough, because I was asking you to be all the love and affection and joy I had missed.
And then I worried, because I realized you couldn't meet my every need, and so I thought, oh no!, something's wrong, because I didn't realize I was trying to make you meet needs that weren't yours to fill. And so my desperate fear that I would loose you grew and grew. So I held on harder, held on more desperately, and hid many parts of myself, because I so much feared that if you saw them, you would reject me. And so in spite of my desperate desire to be close to you, I pushed you away as well because it was too frightening to have you near. (As one of my articles says, "The closer we get, the scarier it gets, so I have to avoid the closeness or the father away we get, the scarier it gets, so I have to manipulate closeness.") Push and pull, back and forth, close and near. I cant' stand to loose you, but I can't stand to have you close.
And for heaven's sake, I definitely couldn't be myself, because you'd surely reject me then.
So, things got scarier and scarier, and I needed you more, and pushed you away more, and then a scary monster reared it's ugly head: Commitment. Was I going to marry you, or not? And while the thought of losing you terrified me, the thought of getting closer terrified me more, because our relationship wasn't 'perfect,' and for heaven's sake, you weren't meeting all my needs!, all those needs that weren't yours to meet anyway. And so, finally, in a last act of desperation, I rejected you, to beat you to the punch, so that you couldn't out-and-out reject me. I did the rejecting for you.
And that, my friends, is why all that mother/infant bonding crap is so important.
And that is why you shouldn't try to get a boyfriend to meet every attachment need you've ever had in your life.
And that is why I am very sorry for how I hurt you.

A Visit

When your mother announces she's coming to visit you two weeks before she arrives, you tend to do crazy things. Like plan the right outfits, pray your pimples go away, and purge your vocabulary of "Holy Crap!" and other unacceptable phrases. And clean out your car. Which is what I did today.
Now, this may not sound like that big of a project, but you must understand that I haven't really cleaned out my car at all since I got it a year and a half ago. And I haven't removed excess paperwork/crap since basically last spring, or at least last August. So, ummm, there was a lot of stuff. And a lot of grime (L.A. SMOG, people - the dashboard was coated with this disgusting black layer) and a lot of coffee stains. So I got the vacuum cleaner and hooked up the attachments and vacuumed the whole dadgum thing, and scrubbed with the carpet cleaner, and used Windex, and . . . went through all the Stuff. Old tupperware (ewww), empty waterbottles, and paperwork galore. Receipts from my old therapist, confidentiality documents from my new therapist, maps of the Grand Canyon, maps of LA, worksheets, notices from school, wedding catalogs, you name it, it was there. (The kitchen sink was happily absent.)
The little compartment over the radio, where the tape player would go, if I had one, was espescially full. Full of stuff, and full of memories. There was a receipt from Steak and Shake in Texas, two shakes and one order of fries - we often went there late at night. A receipt from a Smoothie King in Picayune, Mississippi for a mocha - you always put up with my coffee cravings so patiently, giving into my whims and driving us all over to find me a Starbucks! And the little 'growing dinosaurs', the little capsules that when you put them in water, it grows into a sponge in the shape of some wild animal. Remember how we used to bring those home from the grocery store and pop them in warm water, waiting to see what they were? Some special fortunes from special fortune cookies, from a special night. Do you remember your fortune, baby? Do you remember that night? You always had such funny rules about opening fortune cookies! And, in the backseat, a grocery list. Which seems so simple, but I nearly started crying. We went to the grocery store together, every week. I loved so much to shop with you, even something so mundane was fun with you. We went up and down the aisles together, you hiding from me, or telling jokes, or stealing a kiss - in the middle of the freaking grocery store. ;-) I miss that simple weekly ritual, I miss the joking smile, I miss you and I love you.
Just in case either of us had forgotten.

Something New

Yesterday, I did three new things! And (I think) they were all good, altho not equally so. Here they are:

1. I went to a jazz club! It was so much fun! The singer was so fabulous, she was so into music, interacting with the songs, dancing, twirling like a little girl, she was great! Her dreadlocks were great, too. ;-) The place was really fun, until we realized that there was a two order minimum per person. Poop on them! Anyway, still lots of fun, lots of giggling, lots of good times, but I missed you . . .

2.I mopped the kitchem floor witha 'real mop' and a real bucket of water w/ Pine-sol, just like the lady on TV! No more Swiffer for me (that's the only way I've ever mopped the floor)! And actually, it wasn't that bad. I scrubbed, and mopped, and lo and behold, the floor was shiny clean! I was awfully proud of that floor, the ladies at LAF would be so proud. ;-) (Scary, Scary women, btw.)

3.Finally, yesterday, I inaugurated my career as Baby Therapist. Yes, yes, I know, pretty scary that I, The Messed Up One, am trying to help someone else. But, nonetheless, such is the nature of therapy. If we had to be completely healthy to be therapists, there woudln't be any therapists at all. In any case, I was So Scared, and about choked while I was trying to explain the paperwork because my breath was coming so fast, it felt like no words could come out. But then, when things got underway, I started to calm down, and for a moment, I had this feeling of exhiliration: this is it, people, this is what I've been working so long to be able to do, this is what I've dreamed of for so many years. And now? Here I am, I have Arrived.

On Why I love Uncle Joey

So, let me begin by telling you that I'm slightly (a lot) obssessed with the movie Cinderella Man. I love the story, I love the kids, I love Renee Zellweger, and, naturally, I love Russell Crowe, seeing how he is an Extremely Attractive Man. (Actually, I don't like the boxing part of this boxing movie, it's a little graphic, but never mind. ;-)) I espescially love the message it gives about family, about sticking together, about the very positive and important role of women in marriage, even if the woman is not the "Big-shot" in the marriage. I love what it has to say about love. Jim and Mae have a beautiful relationship.
But you know what I love most of all?
I dunno, maybe it's just because I have a soft-spot for guys with poke-able tummies, but the thing I love best about Cinderella Man is Joe Gould. Sexy as Russell Crowe may be, Uncle Joey steals the show for me. Honestly, I have trouble exactly putting my finger on what it is I like so much about him. Maybe it's his self-deprecating sense of humor. Maybe it's the way he sufffers all alone, and is so meek about it once it all comes to light. Maybe it's the special look and wink he has for his wife, as he steals a moment from the tummult to look at her. Maybe it's his love and compassion for his friend and fighter, Jim. Maybe it's the way he stands by his friend, no matter what, no matter what defeats come, no matter what anyone says, and would gladly fight for him any day. I think perhaps that's what I like best. Maybe it's just my mother issues, and feeling unnurtured and uncared for, but the fact that Joe Gould, who is like 5"4' and tubby, would stand up to some huge boxing champ all for the sake of love is intensely admirable to me. Perhaps it's simply that I want to be protected, taken care of, and I rarely look for those qualities in anyone, espescially not men, because my father wasn't a particularly nurturing protector.
Or maybe it's just his "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" speech that I like best. ;-)
Watch the movie, see for yourself!

So, here it is, I'm rather pleased. 

The Haircut

So . . . I got my haircut. Which, is, like, so not that big of a deal. But it was a little-bit big deal for me because it's a bit shorter than I originally planned. But oh-so-cute! I really like it! But . . . short!
Lemme explain. When I was about 4, my mom took me to a new hair-cutter-lady who promised to make my hair look So Cute. Well, don't ask me where my mom was in the middle of all this to stop the Butchering, but suffice it to say, I came out with The Haircut of Horror. Ya'll, my ears kinda stick out, and the haircut was basically a bowl-cut, with the hair cutting off just above my ears . . . . I looked like a Boy with ears the size of elephants'. It was AWFUL. I felt soooo ugly. At the age of four. Anyway, in response to this trauma, I have had my hair long ever since, except briefly in college when I cut it all off for Locks of Love.
Anyway, so I went to Paul Mitchell The School yesterday, where they give haircuts cheap b/c the people are just students, so for $15 I got a massage, a haircut, styling, and a little more personal contact with my stylist than I would have liked. Admittedly, the massage part was a bit of a surprise. When he started running his hands through my nasty, dirty hair I almost freaked. But that pales in comparison to the part where he Massaged My Face, folding a hot washclothe over my face, with a little hole for my nose, and then rubbing my jaw. I think I would have liked it better if I had known this was going to happen . . .
Overall, a two thumbs up experience! (Except I wish he would learn to cut people's hair without pressing his groin against their arms. But he's only a student, so maybe they haven't covered that part of the syllabus yet.) Now the question is, should I post the pictures of my haircut . . . ?

Homicidal Ideations

I'm gonna kill 'em . . . I Swear, I'm gonna Kill my roommates. (Ok, not really. But still.)
It all began at our 'Sunday Meeting' when New Roommate informed us with her tone of voice that we were all five years old and mentally retarded and moreover not Christian enough for her. She explained to us that because we're women, God created us to be more 'orderly' than 'guys,' as it says in Proverbs 31, and so we need to become more 'godly women' and clean up after ourselves better. Personally, I'd love to read her Bible and find this verse about how you're a manly, butch sinner if you don't clean your dishes immediately after use .... But I digress. The point is that now we have Two Control Freaks in the house, with me and Sane Roommate trying our best to not be mercilessly tossed about by their stormy winds of frustrated manipulation. (I'm not bitter At All.)
But it gets better.
Just now I got to listen through a pornographic panegyric by Scary Roommate on the newest member of her Lifegroup (Bible Study thingy) who happens to be male. Now, here's why I'm against any kind of 'singles' groups at church: she spent what seemed like ForEver describing to me the way it felt when he touched her (on the shoulder), the way she could see his thigh muscles through his jeans (yes, his Thigh Muscles, people. Soooo Sexy, lemme tell ya), and how when they were holding hands to 'pray,' she simply stood there and repeated to herself over and over again, "Think about how this feels...Feel it!"
Ahem. She met this guy today and she's already talking like their having sex. Fabulous.
Too bad I dont' know anyone in the Mafia ...

Quickie

So, woohoo, my internet is working once again! (ComCast, you are evil.) Which is still a shoddy excuse for posting so infrequently, and no excuse for the fact that this post will simply be a quick smattering of thoughts, feelings, and observations.
First of all, I'm trying to ward off the Valentine's Day angst. In fact, I'm even relunctant to talk about it, because I've been doing such a good job of forgetting about it, and I don't want to jinx myself. So, I'll try to make this as innocuous as possible. When I was a little girl, my Mama was Great about Valentine's Day. We baked, we decorated, we got each other little presents, it was a Very Serious Holiday all about love! Of course, there was no such thing as romantic or sexual love in my house as a child, but this worked out rather well because then Valentine's could be about a more general love for friends and family. And it was so much fun! When the Christmas decoration went down on January 6 (Epiphany), the Valentine's Day decorations went up as a kind of consolation. Roommate and I used to decorate for Valentine's as well, but this year, due to unfortunate amounts of Housemate Drama, I decided Not decorating would be better. However, a word to the wise: don't loose all your Valentine's cards and thus have to go out and re-purchase them the night before, because, lemme tell you, all that's left are the ones that Suck.
Oooooh, Roommate Drama. I won't go into this too fully, except to say New Roommmate and Scary Roommate got into a fight about The Path Through The Crap in the Garage. Oh y'all . . .
I have just completed my second week Binge Free. I'm proud, and yet so scared, and feeling very ominously that there's No Way I can ever keep this up, that I can ever be really healthy and well, etc. I feel like I'm walking on thin ice, and if I step the wrong way, down I'll go.
Finally, a little upset, and little change in my summer plans. Nothing big, mind you, but for whatever reason it has hit me like a ton of bricks. I'm feeling a bit bummed, and feeling even more bummed because of why I am bummed: a lot of my emotion is simply about the root issue that when people get engaged, get married, etc., nothing is the same again. And nor should it be. The friendships must change because the couple must come together. But, to get hyper-dramatic and quote Galadriel "I must diminish and go into the West." Literally. I must accept the West as my home, at least for now, and I must slowly retreat, ever so slightly, from things I hold so dear.
And yes, I am speaking cryptically for a reason.
And yes, I think I am done.
And yes, I know this is all a bit crazy.

The Year in Review

Today was Preview Day at school, meaning that prospective students come and look at the school, go to classes, have interviews, etc. All the prospective students filed into class today, some in suits, others in jeans, and I was brought back to this time a year ago, which seems at once such a short and yet such a long time ago.
This time last year I was in a serious relationship, getting ready for a happy, laid-back, love-filled Valentines' Day. I had finished the mad rush of grad school applications (y'all, it Sucks) and was now waiting to hear back from schools. I was topsy-turvy in that respect, a bit unsure where to go, and these schools in SoCal were my first schools for interviewing, so I didn't know what to expect. I was lonely and scared, binging like crazy on my trip because I felt so incredibly alone in this bright, crazy Los Angeles world. I couldn't wait to get back to the warm comfort of Roommate and our sweet, cozy little appartment, all decorated for Valentine's Day.
A year brings a lot of change.
I now live here in SoCal, however relunctantly. (Which, btw, the city is currently coverd in Ash from fires in the desert. It's like a volcano is erupting. Huge black clouds roll across the sky and the sun is red.) I rent my own little room, tiny as a closet, and it's Definitely not decorated for Valentine's day. (In fact, it's just burried in crap.) I am now groaning under the felt-prison of four and a half more years of school. I never thought they could feel so oppressive. I am now planning a Valentine's Day get-together (are we sensing a Valentine's theme, here?) for all the single people in my class so we won't feel quite so sad next Tuesday. I keep my quiet dreams of romance (mostly) to myself. Roommate lives in another state now, in another part of the country. We talk every week, but it's just not the same. How could it be? Now two of my closest friends are engaged, bringing with it very different concerns than mine. They are now literally planning the stuff of life, their weddings, their careers, their kids. I mean, I know you can't exactly plan that stuff, but to even Think of planning it boggles my mind. My plan is, can I make it till May? And then the next May, and then the next?
I am more fragile now, more exposed, more open and bleeding. I can't keep it in anymore, all the things I think and feel, can't keep lying to myself. I am more honest now, and I suppose there is a strength in honesty. I am alone, very, very alone, alone in a way I have never been before.
I am here now, a little root, small, but firm and strong. I am quiet, waiting, waiting for God only knows what. Waiting for the sunlight, waiting for the rain, waiting for my cue to blosom. But know that I am growing, quiet and small as I am.

What Food Does for Me that I Cannot Do for Myself

So, in case you didn't notice the weird-sounding title, this isn't a subject I came up with. Nope, Fancy-Schmancy Nutritionist (with her other office in Beverly Hills) asked me to blog about this subject, so here we go:

*Disclaimer: I realize that at some point I will not need food to do these things for me. I am merely stating what I get food to do for me right now.*

1. Distraction! There's this Alanis Morisette song that talks about being 'petrified of silence,' and then the cd goes blank. For a few seconds, you have to face your fear of silence. Well, food's great because there's never a silent, empty moment! You can fill it up while you fill your stomach. Are you sad, scared, angry, or alone? Food is always there for you. Which leads to my next point:
2.Pushing Down the Pain: If an undesirable emotion should dare to raise it's ugly head, you can eat sometimg, and then immediately have something nice and comforting before you. It doesn't matter if you don't have any friends, because food, espescially sweets, are good for what ails you.
3. Rewards! Done anything good or difficult? Clearly, you deserve something sweet! This was instilled in me from a young age: according to Daddy, if you exercised, then you 'deserved' to have a cookie. Well, sometimes you do things that are a lot harder than exercising, and so, clearly, you need more than One cookie. Are you staying up late? Studying for exams? Are you having a really rough week? Here, have some ice cream, you deserve it.
4. Self-esteem boost: If I don't eat, then I am being a 'good little girl.' Ooooh, aren't I just so virtuous??? All I had for breakfast was a cup of coffee? Fabulous! Better that I had had nothing at all, of course, but still, doing pretty good. A Lean Cuisine for lunch? Excellent! I'm doing great. The problem, of course, is that I can't not-eat forever. Eventually I will have dinner, and then binge, and then feel like shit. But, for those daylight hours, I really am a good person because I am not eating food.
Allright, that's all for now, folks. This is a bit painful. But rest assured there's more to come.

Quality Time

Can I tell you a little secret?
Sometimes I Really don't like my roommates (read: Scary Roommate). Like, ooooooh, I just shiver with anger and my vision gets all blurry because, ooooooh, I just can't Stand her!
Tonight was one of those evenings.
Now, the question is, why do I hate her so much? Why???? She is nothing but nice to me. I mean, yes, she is a bit manipulative, but that's nothing new. Mostly, I'm just struck by her neediness, her desperation for relationships, her dire need for A Man. And, normally, or at least under some circumstances, I think I would have compassion for such desperation. In fact, as I write this, I do feel rather sorry for her. But, oh!, in the moment, forget it! I wonder what it is about her, and what it is about me, that makes her so infuriating to me. Perhaps because in her I see a part of myself I don't like? I don't know.
Anyway, this evening she had me firmly trapped. She caught me off guard the other day and made me promise to hang out with her tonight, and at the time I could not think of an excuse. (Aren't I horrible?) So, we hung out accordingly, making dinner and eventually watching a movie, but not without her first wringing information from me about the Fancy-Schmancy Nutritionist (more on that later) than I ever wanted to tell anybody.
And then we saw the movie. Oh y'all, what a movie! The Notebook is about chick-flickiest chick-flick I've ever seen. Ohmyheavens, everything a girl could want. And so about me, as well. Somethings about it so apply to my life, and make me ask myself a lot of questions. Which I would post, only too many people read this blog. ;-) So, instead, I'll just contemplate them on my own, and hope I can come with an excuse faster next time she asks.

The Beginning

And so another semester begins. Only 9 more to go until I actually have soemthing to show for all this crap. New courses, new school supplies, a new housemate. And, oh grascious, y'all, what a housemate! She's been living in Beverly Hills, but has now been 'called out' by God to live among the less-affluent. I guess that's us. ;-) And while, yes, we do technically live below the poverty line, it's only because we're currently racking up over $100,000 worth of debt to become certifiably over-educated. Also, she had to leave her last living situation becuase 'they weren't Real Christians.' Ohmygrascious. Heaven only Knows if we're 'Real Christians' or not. Still, Scary Roommate (see post: Why Roommate is so Wonderful) thinks New Housemate is the best thing since sliced bread. Maybe it's becuase she says things like "That's so rad!" and "She's so dope!" You never know, I guess some people like those phrases. ;-)
It's funny, because sometimes I'll start asking myself, is this really worth it? Is it really worth all this crap, all this schooling, all these housemates, all this therapy, for four measly letters, Psy.D., after my name? Is it really worth all the pain and suffering of living in ugly and unbreathable SoCal? So many times, all I want to do is run back to Texas, run back Home, back to where my friends are close by, where the things I know and love are. Sometimes I can almost taste it. But then I have moments like the one I had in class today: I grumble along, thinking about how much I hate school, I hate class, I hate SoCal, and then Dr. Porter says, "And this semester we'll be talking about the problem of Evil, the nature of human persons, and the existance of the Soul." (And yes, he really does say "Human Persons." It's like his favorite phrase.) And then I realize, there's (almost) no where else I'd rather be. Yes, I am so much of a nerd that discussing the existance of the soul actually sounds exciting to me, actually sparks something within me that makes me want to sit up and Listen! Sit up, and think, and feel, and do. So guess what, all you crap??? You can't get me down! Because, goshdarn it, I'm gonna be a psychologist, and I'm gonna be the best one I can be, and what's more, I'm gonna like it!
Because this is my call, and you can't mess with that.

You might be a Redneck if ...

So, Uncle Rico lives across the street. Admittedly, Uncle Rico is a little older, a little wiser, a little richer, but, hey!, it's been a couple years since he and Napoleon sold cheap tupperware, so he's moved up in the world. He finally gave up on football, gave up on that VW van, and moved himself on down to SoCal. Where he met other people just like him.
Uncle Rico has no need for the van. Now he has his own run down house, complete with a yard strewn with trash and old car parts, with plenty of space to fullfill his dreams: RV racing. Oh yes. His yard holds not one, but two vehicles up on cinder blocks (one of them being the RV), in addition to his four other vehicles, parked haphazardly on the lawn. When he gets home from work everday, complete with mechanic's uniform and embroidered name badge, Uncle Rico brushes his toupee-like hair, pulls off his shirt, and goes to work 'renovating' that RV, which he can't wait to go race in the desert with his buddies. Uncle Rico has no need to throw the football to get attention from the ladies, or anyone else. He just grabs a beer, shows off his (sagging) muscles, sends a lecherous glance towards the house full of hotties across the street, and works it on that RV. After all, what woman could resist that 70s hair style, or the hotness of an RV on cinderblocks? So, yes, Uncle Rico may still be a little "stuck in '82," but, make no mistake, all his wildest dreams are coming true, just like Pedro said.

It's funny because I go about my life, thinking I'm, well, somewhat ok, thinking that at least things will Be ok, someday. And then, something happens, and I am reminded all over again that the wound is still fresh, that the blood has scarcely dried. The reminder came this time out of the blue, completely unexpected, like a smog-free day in Southern California. Quick and heavy, straight for the gut, knocking me nearly breathless. I begin to ache again, like before, only now I have both an ache and a smarting, as though I have been slapped.
The blow is not something new. It is only a new manifestation of an old pain, a pain I should probably be embracing, but instead am running from as much as possible. And, worst of all, I really have no right to feel this pain. But, now that I feel it, everything is different. For a moment my world is changed, and every sight is different, from my car to my bed to the books beside it. Everything is now full of fresh pain, a fresh reminder.
It's times like these where I would love to escape, love to run far away from my life. Somewhere where, yes, there may be pain, but it is not mine.

New Orleans Holiday

So, I went and saw Last Holiday last night, which I was not particularly filled with desire to see. However, when somewhat suicidal friend e-mails and tell you she wants to see X movie (as long as it's not too depressing), well, that's what you see. I wasn't expecting much, and that's probably a good thing, but it really wasn't half bad. Of course, it was cheese, cheese, cheese, but not a bad kind of cheese, and, randomly, the main character's relationship with God was very well-portrayed, and, dare I say, rather nice and refreshing? For the most part, that part was h appily expempt from cheese. And, of course, Queen Latifah (sp?) movies are always nice b/c she's not exactly skinny, but you get to see her look so beautiful and happy, just the way she is. (Is she really that beautiful and happy in real life? I guess we'll never know.)
Anyway!, so, the other reason I really liked the movie was b/c it took place in New Olreans. Ok, it was so sad how excited I was when I finally figured this out. I almost leaned over and excitedly hissed, "It's in New Olreans!!!!" but then I thought better of it b/c I realized she has no reason to be excited about it taking place in New Olreans, and it would require a long explanation while something important was happening, and . . . not worth it. So, I was just quietly excited. And why, pray tell, did this make me so happy? Well, you see, Boy is from there. Boy is currently gutting and rebuilding a house that was flooded by Katrina there. N'awlins is Boy's home. (Btw, it made me really mad b/c no one in the movie even Bothered to Try to fake a New Olreanian accent, which, let me tell you, is something to hear. One of them said New OlrlEANS like they were taking about the Leaning Tower of Pisa, it LEANS. Ugh!)
Anyway, did I mention to you how much I love that city? This of course is simply becuase he loves that city more than anyone should ever love a city. ;-) But still he loves it, and still to me it is a magic place, a place where everything has a story, one for the city, and one for my baby. It is a place beautiful and run-down and charming, where you can feel the history steep into your bones, and laugh as he takes you down Scary and Immoral Bourbon street and tells you funny stories about the Houses of Sin. It is a place with beautiful old mansions, full of mystery, to gaze at while he takes you, for the hundreth time, down St. Charles so you can see them again. It is a place where people have welcomed me with open arms, always so happy to see me, always warm and accepting, even in the middle of difficulty. Which certainly makes me wonder why I ever thought it was a good idea to give up my opportunity to live in that magical place. ;-)
Yes, it was just a movie. Yes, if I lived there, it wouldn't hold the same mythical power. But I love that city nonetheless, the city that is his home.