north before south

Marido and I have been in Vancouver for over a month now. It has not been the mild, Canadian experience that I had anticipated. Everything is more, more, more than what I thought it would be. It is more expensive and more rainy and more sunny and more pleasant and more happy and more productive and more mountainous.

I've been using this time here as practice for life on the road, but it's far too comfortable to compare. Aside from the pared-down wardrobe and lack of friends, this is not what our grand adventure is going to look like. But I have been incredibly productive, something that I was worried that I would not be able to accomplish while in a new city. But in that sense, it has been a great practice. I am seeing that I work well in excursions of this length. It is enough to get to know an area while not having the pressure to sacrifice work to sightsee. When you're in a place for six weeks, you have time to settle into a new routine and then leave before it gets boring. I love it.

Of course it helps that we have a great set-up here that we didn't have to arrange ourselves. Marido gets to walk to work. The one-bedroom they put us up in is appointed with all these modern conveniences that we don't have at home: a dishwasher, heat, and a little gym in the lobby of our 22-story building. We even have a washer/dryer in the unit, which is critical seeing as we each only brought like six shirts for our six-week stay. In fact, it makes our home in San Francisco seem downright rustic.

In ten days we'll be celebrating two years of driving each other crazy. I'm humbled when I think of how much things have evolved--how we have parlayed a fleeting encounter in Buenos Aires into this beautiful, inspirational partnership that has changed me in so many ways. There are the obvious ways--like quitting smoking and really focusing on my work alongside someone who is so supportive of me--but it's the more subtle ways that I think really add up to feeling like a different person. I think my standards have shifted so that I no longer hope and pray for something wonderful to happen to me, I expect it. I expect it every day in little ways and over the long-term, as well. Some people might call this optimism, but I think it has more to do with the confidence you gain when you begin to see results. It's an overwhelming feeling that I'm not quite used to. It makes me feel privileged to expect good things to come my way, and almost a little fearful in the way that when you have higher expectations, you build yourself up for greater disappointment. But I think that this is also what develops from being in a strong partnership. Your performance improves.

In this way I have to say that Vancouver itself is inspirational. The city is highly functional. It's not a party town where people get drunk and stay out all night. It's a place where people are respectful of themselves and each other and the environment. And maybe that has something to do with why my work is going so well here, too. It's not as self-indulgent as San Francisco. It encourages you to work hard and to be humble. I don't know what it is about this place, but I like it and I hope that I can make the most of the next two weeks--and somehow learn to take this sort of focus with me on the road. It looks like things are about to get interesting.

hare-brained

It is now the Year of the Hare. According to Chinese astrologists, it will be a calm year following the Tiger's year of turmoil. Hooray...?

But I prefer to think of it as a year not of the hare, but of the jackrabbit. We saw these in the desert last week and I can't stop thinking of them. They blend in to their desert surroundings, their gigantic ears standing on alert like tall radars. At the slightest detection of trouble--or opportunity--they take swift action. I am thinking of this year as a resting time, too, but resting with the notion that at any moment, we could take swift action. We can be like the hawks, opportunely waiting our moment for the right current of air to take us away.

Marido is out of town. I miss him in all the usual ways--out of comfort, out of desire, out of excitement...but I also miss him in an unexpected way that I think has something to do with his existence being a new sign that things are different now.

Although I miss him intensely, I am glad that we have some time apart to break up the routine. It is not just the routine of the everyday activities that is nice to escape, but the mental patterns you become accustomed to regarding someone's role in your life. With Marido so far away, I am reminded of our physical language, how we support each other daily, but also his overall role for me as a man who has encouraged me to pursue what I love (like writing) and change what I don't (like smoking).

As we know, our minds both seek and create patterns, which in turn give us stability, logic, and form foundations for seeking extended truths and higher-level problem-solving. It is because we can accept the physical realm that we can build skyscrapers, that when we fall asleep at night we can trust that we will wake up in the same place.

Sometimes our reliance on patterns can work against us, though, creating limitations of the imagination rather than platforms for expansion. I think that this happens when people get depressed, anxious, or fearful--our minds attach to a mental conception as tightly as it attaches to the physical world. We see ourselves as inflexible beings, incapable of change.

But change happens. We can resist it, but we miss out on a lot. It's like refusing to enjoy a comedy, just because we were expecting an action flick. Adaptation is more than adopting new survival skills to a changing environment, it's recognizing when we need to change our environments ourselves and knowing when the moment is right to do so.

If this is the year of waiting, I am glad to be waiting it out with Marido. And when the time comes to take action, I hope we will be ready. I think we will be.

resolve

Shortly after making my new year's resolutions last year, I had a personal crisis following a night with a friend, two Germans, and a plate full of blow. The fallout, I think, really weakened my resolve, and to pull myself out of that shame spiral, I had to rely on the two bad habits I was trying to break with my resolutions: sugar and sloth.

That was back in a time when I wrote more prolifically in this blog, a time when my life was filled with spectacular failures--universally entertaining because they typically involved some combination of sex, drugs, and idiocy. Things are different now. I am still dealing with failure on a daily basis, but the failures are a lot less interesting and really only deal with some combination of writing, unemployment and monogamy. The lack of dramatic failure is a welcome change, but it also leaves me feeling a little stagnant; I am used to confrontation as a vehicle for change and growth.

Sometimes I can be really hard on myself and then things get pretty dark. I have to force myself out and talk myself up like a kindergarten teacher. I list off all my recent endeavors, and try to frame them as positive, even if they were failures. Failures are the best kinds of learning experiences. If I don't have a lot of endeavors to tick off to myself, well, that's the problem right there: Not Doing Shit. So I resolve to do more shit, whether it's starting some new project, however large or small, or tackling a big, bad habit.

But making the same resolution I've made for the past ten years (gonna finish my novel) has become more depressing than inspiring. I have to finish this and move on just so I can begin making some new resolutions.

Anyhow, I just wanted to tell you Happy New Year and that dammit, this is going to be the best fucking year ever. It's going to be hard to be last year, but it's off to an even better start. Instead of being sort of desperate and alone in Argentina, I'm calm and in love and in San Francisco. And tonight I'm making soup.

boiled amphibians

I'm happy that November is over, aren't you? It wasn't the easiest of months for me. But now that it's December again, I can celebrate little anniversaries. Like it's been a year since I left for Argentina. It's (almost) been six months since I met Marido. And it's been two months since I quit smoking--all reasons to celebrate.

Everyone I know seems to be struggling with their relationships. Relationships are always complex and interesting, but lately they seem to be taking more from us than giving, which I suppose is only normal during the jolliest time of year. Things with me and Marido have been no exception. I really thought we were over, but we aren't.

I think this conversation sums it all up:

ME: I think we have communication problems. It's obvious to me that you've been unhappy for more a little while, but you insist nothing is wrong. Then all of a sudden one day you say you don't want to spend the holidays with me, can't live with me, and don't see a future for us. Of course I freaked out and thought you were breaking up with me. It was the most you'd said in a month. Why didn't you say anything before?

(long, thoughtful pause)

MARIDO: Well, it is like boiling a frog.

(Figuring this is some sort of cultural thing, I wait for him to continue. But instead there is an even longer pause during which I stare at him wondering if he is making an ill-timed joke about our communication problems, or if he is just insane.)

ME: Um, boiling a frog? I don't understand. You're going to have to explain that to me.

MARIDO: (genuinely surprised) Really?

I've never heard of this allusion, but it apparently is so widespread that Little Brother understood it immediately (of course) and it has its own Wikipedia entry. If you're too lazy to click the link, the "boiling a frog" reference is an allusion to the myth that if you place a frog in a pot of temperate water and then slowly bring it to a boil, it will not react to the gradual rise in temperature and boil to death; whereas if you place a frog in boiling water, it will jump out and save itself. Whether or not it's true, this idea is a reference to people's abilities to tolerate extreme circumstances when subjected to them gradually.

Classic hilarity!

Anyhow, it's obvious we need to communicate a little better. Last week was pretty fucking dicey, and I packed up all of my stuff and came home, unsure of whether or not I would return. It is a hard thing to have my confidence in a relationship shaken, when I see that as mainly what keeps me attached to someone--my belief that they will love me and protect me and be a new source of awesomeness, not a source of infinite strife, and vice-versa. I want to make Marido happier by amazing him with love and people and new possibilities for adventure. I don't want to make him feel like a boiled frog!

When I left San Francisco, I was unsure of if we were boiling each other or making each others' lives better. Our lives have changed a lot with the addition of each other. We are both intense people and diametrically opposed in a lot of ways. My first step after leaving San Francisco was to consider whether I wanted to ask him to come to Chicago for Thanksgiving (as planned), because it meant a lot to me, or if he should hang back in San Francisco for a breather (as we both knew would be beneficial in other ways). While discussing this with my mother, he texted to tell me he would still come, if I wanted him to. It meant the world to me that he came.

I love Thanksgiving. This year, I am especially thankful for:

1) Delicious food (no boiled frogs!), particularly pie, ice cream, and turkey;
2) the miracle of aviation;
3) my friends, who amaze me with their patience, wisdom, and incredibly diverse range of relevant advice;
4) my family, who sometimes bring out the worst in me but love me anyway;
5) love in general, its resilience, its optimism, how it makes everything and everyone better;
6) Marido, for believing in us, for continuing to make memories with me, for giving me keys to come back to San Francisco, for destroying a dictionary to send me a love letter, for his pasta carbonara, and for his little-boy smile which makes me believe that we will grow old together;
7) the ability to step back and see where improvements can be made in one's life;
8) the ability to make those improvements with the help of all of the above.

I'm excited for my New Year's resolutions this year. Aren't you?

noted

Lessons learned these past two weeks:

Filed under Cooking:
Fried garlic is the perfect topping to many savory food items. Purple cabbage and apples keep for a long time. If you cover a rack of ribs in barbecue sauce and then throw it in the oven at 250 for 3 hours, the result is DELICOUSNESS. Artichokes are sort of a bitch to prepare, and their deliciousness is mostly derived from butter and garlic, negating most of their healthy properties as a vegetable.

Filed under California:
Even property 150 miles away from San Francisco without water or gas hookups is expensive. The further north you go, the more delicious the beer. Biking north into Sausalito is mostly downhill. You can purchase cocktails on the ferry. The town of Sea Ranch, though nestled on a beautiful stretch of the Pacific and purportedly full of hippies, appears to be uniformly oppressive, at least from an architectural standpoint.

Filed under Relationships:
Passion and dedication are interdependent. It is always better to be appreciated than tolerated--but if you can be happy alongside someone else, that is just as good; if you can't, it's worse than not being tolerated at all. Everything important about relationships can be traced back to the movie Say Anything. Everything else is petty fluff.

Filed under Writing:
Graham Greene is surprisingly funny. Alberto Moravia will consume most of my life for the next few months. Abebooks is a great source to get used books for cheap. Computer games and great writing do not mix.

Filed under Miscellany:
Peanut butter and birdseed alone will not self-adhere and dry into a molded form.

evolution and devolution

Something has been happening to my body lately, and I am wondering if any other gals out there have ever experienced the same thing.

My periods have always been very regular and pretty fast: 23-day cycles, sometimes less. It sucks bleeding so much and so often, but one thing that is good that I always know pretty quickly that I am not pregnant, and the window for impregnating me is pretty slim. But ever since I met Marido, the cycles have been getting longer and longer. I have only known him for a little over three months, but my last cycle was 32 days, meaning that each cycle added almost 3 days. This has been throwing me off, but I sort of chalked it up to all the moving around I've been doing. Then this morning I was jogging and trying to coax myself into believing that oxygen is a suitable substitute for nicotine and thinking that I can't believe it's already been a week since I stopped. A week, just like that! I have started to think about how stupid it is to quit smoking. Yesterday two of my parents' friends died in unrelated events. They were both health freaks, and younger than my parents. If I could just drop dead tomorrow, why not smoke? Ordinarily I would cave into these bursts of withdrawal-reasoning. But somehow I have made it through this first smokeless week pretty painlessly, mostly by concentrating how much I miss Marido, which is so much worse than missing smoking. And instead of wanting to smoke to cope with missing him, I am just...jogging and drinking water--which has never really worked before, especially with the I-can-easily-justify-smoking thoughts. And while I was jogging, I remembered my friend Z who told me she quit when she got pregnant and it was not a big deal at all.

Suddenly it occured to me that maybe my body wants to be pregnant. Is it because I am in love? I feel like my body is increasing my chances of getting pregnant by prolonging my cycles. And the relative ease with which I stopped smoking this week also feels like another way my body is whispering "Baby me!" This worries me deeply. I am not on birth control and have not been for about five years. I don't want to go back on it, but I also don't want to be pregnant right now, and since I have never been pregnant before, I feel like I am nearing the end of using up all of my odds. Who knows, maybe my uterus is bouncing around seven eggs at a time now. It is probably like a multiball pinball experience in there right now. Is this what my biology is up to? Even though I am making myself healthier, my body's seeming desperation to pass on my DNA is making me feel like I'm nearing the end of my life span.

But I don't want to procreate at the moment, because I have other things to do--the biggest one being getting rid of this goddamn novel. I have been working on my completed novel, by un-completing it. I am not sure if this is a good idea. I feel like I am making it better, but at the same time I kind of just want to seal it up, let it go, and continue sending out pitches. The more I work on it, the less I like it. I really need another good editor to look at it and tell me exactly what it needs. But I keep cutting things and adding things and I am reminded of these cherry-orange-walnut muffins I made last week, and how long it took me to make them with all of these special ingredients like almond paste (which I made) and orange juice (which I squeezed and zested). The muffins were fucking terrible. And then a few days later I made blueberry muffins with about seventeen less ingredients and they were delicious.

But, artistic integrity aside, what I really need to do is sell this goddamn thing. It might not be the best it could be, but I think it is publishable. And I think this because I have read some terrible books in my life. On the other hand, I definitely don't want to add to the pile of awful published jetsam out there.

Who am I kidding? Being published in any form would be so awesome that I can't even think about it. Maybe that is why I keep revising--so I don't have to think about the publishing aspect.

heeding advice

I listen to people. Sometimes more than myself. Yesterday I went on what was supposed to be an overnight trip with my FC love affair. It was a test trip to see if we could travel together to the desert soon. I was very conflicted about going with him, because he is way into me and I am not so much into him. But he's a nice, decent guy, and if he could stop touching me we could probably travel together and split costs.

Pricey tequila happened Monday night, which always brings out the let's-talk-dirt in me. I was with my young friend who was complaining about not being able to get laid and so I asked him how to deal with this FC who is not a love affair after all. I like to keep my options open, but I can see how that is confusing. You are always wondering--am I going to get laid with this person or not? Earlier in the evening I'd asked my friend what to do, and he advised me to just tell the FC straight up that I was not going to sleep with him. But the young guy laughed when I told him. He said, "Even if a girl tells me no, half the time we end up sleeping together anyway." I put up the standard disgusted-feminist facade for a second but then he asked me if I'd ever said no and then done it anyway, and it turns out that I'm not exactly advancing my cause here. But one of them was a gross situation where I was definitely taken advantage of and I guess the other times I just changed my mind or gave into persistence. Sometimes persistence can be flattering.

Anyhow, the moral of that conversation was that you can say no, and you can just not do it. It doesn't matter if you say no but don't take the steps to follow through. I can do this, but it is just harder if you are planning to share a bed with someone, particularly if you are of the popular male mindset than 'no' means 'wait for it...' In the end, my young friend echoed my friend P's sage advice: just don't do anything you're going to regret.

So I went to Tigre yesterday with the FC, trying to be open-minded. And as soon as he touched me I told him not to, and he largely respected that. Tigre was beautiful, but I felt a little stressed all day about what was being expected. It wasn't until nightfall that I fully understood that I didn't want to stay overnight. We had the hard conversation. And, yes, he told me I could still stay overnight without sex. But I have tried that before, and with guys that I don't know very well, it is just cheap talk. I'd like to judge every guy separately, but when the odds stack up like that, it is just foolishness to ignore the trend. I was exhausted but I went home, feeling incredibly shitty about everything. He had gotten a really nice hotel and I wanted to believe I could have enjoyed it with him, just as friends. But I was right about one thing--he thought the fact that we had kissed the other night meant we would definitely have sex if we shared a room. He came right out and said it; he was disappointed and being honest. I guess it wasn't clear to him that he had been coming on hard to me and while I hadn't reciprocated all that enthusiastically, I hadn't exactly pushed him away. But making out is one thing, fucking is another. Amiright?

My roommate has been stressed and sick the last week or so, and I am right there with him today with a terrible headache and a sore throat. Stress really fucks up your immune system. And I am confused as to why I wasn't into this guy. It feels like I am walking away from a fucking perfect love affair--temporary, traveling, foreign, sweet, tall, and financially able to pay for things like nice hotels and long lunches. But for some reason I just don't want anything to do with it.

evolution of a hangover

Last night was a night that seemed totally fine. But the more I thought about it, the more unsavory it seems. This is happening to me a lot lately and I need to P&D (process and dissect, as the SF contingency would say) it to see what the fuck is going on.

This morning it took me about two hours to get home from last night's adventure zone. I asked a boy for the wrong bus, he put me on it going in the wrong direction, and then I ended up walking almost an hour even still. At first I felt fine. But then I started thinking, and this is how it went:

9 am: That was fun. I love boys.

9:30 am: I probably drank too much last night.

10 am: I can't believe that guy wanted to do anal this morning.

10:15 am: Why does every guy in Palermo roll with so much blow?

10:20 am: This happened a few weeks ago, too.

10:21 am: That's kind of gross. Meh.

10:37 am: I wonder if that guy thinks I'm some kind of coke whore, or if this is just the MO around here. Kind of seems like it. Is it the scene or is it me? I really can't tell.

10:59 am: You know, the night started out with me being on a sort of date with that other guy. He was sweet. I don't even remember how the second guy entered the picture. I know I wasn't rude about it. We parted amicably. But he probably thinks I am the worst person ever.

11 am: I am the worst person ever.

Does this mean that I think too much (in retrospect), or not enough (before doing something)? I tried to be gentle with myself this morning. I told myself that I am probably more lonely than I realize, and that I should stay out of Palermo. That, and maybe I should think about moving back to Soberland. This kind of shit never happens there.

I felt strangely absolved when Boy A (the boy with whom the evening had originated) called me out over gchat on me switching horses mid-race. He told me he still wanted to hang out again, that he was into "non-exclusive relations" but didn't want to end up playing wingman for me all the time. I found every element of this exchange very confusing. It all seems very contradictory.

And now I am out of cigarettes and it is pouring rain again.

sexy feet, sexy life

I have to confess that yesterday I did something so incredibly frivolous and girly that it was like I was almost possessed: I got a pedicure. I've never gone and done that before. But I have been thinking about it for a while, mostly because I walk around here staring at my feet all day. You have to, to avoid stepping in dog shit, tripping over the ruined sidewalks, or falling into a hole. Or, oh god, I almost stepped into a thick pool of blood congealing on the sidewalk the other day. There had been a traffic accident--a car and a motorcycle. I was ---> this <---- close to putting my sandaled foot in the blood. It shook me up so bad that I actually crossed myself and felt strangely better. The culture is pervading me in bizarre ways. I don't quite understand.

Anyhow I got this pedicure and then I walked around staring at my feet like they were someone else's feet, someone who knew what was going on, and I was just following her around. My friend and I went together but had to have back-to-back sessions so we were in the salon for a really long time. But it was cool inside, and I was excited to indulge. I started the week off in kind of a grim cloud of anxiety and apprehension. That is what happens when you do a bunch of stupid shit and then you have nobody to talk to about it. Treating myself to something nice made me feel better about everything. Okay, so I also treated myself to some ice cream and a brownie and a big salad for lunch and a pair of cheap sandals that I really needed...but the pedicure was the best.

So I feel the need to apologize for my last post, which was a little bleak and trashy. Not that I believe that I should have censored myself really, but I think it is a little unfair to write about shit like that when you are far away and not in constant contact. It causes people to worry about you.

But I am back to work on things in my slow, plodding way, and I feel good. I submitted my second magazine article this week and landed a third assignment this week which will be really fun to work on. I think I will even get to shoot photos for it! Everything is okay when I take a deep breath and say, "Be patient; things are slow; things take time." When I remember to say this to myself and keep moving forward according to plan, everything is fine. It's when I give into the Asian-American (maybe the worst combo of Type 'A' personalities) shrieking in my head that I think "Ohmygodwhatthefuckisgoingon, whatkindofchoiceshaveimade, whodoithinkiam, whatdoihavetoshow, whatamiworth, whoamikidding, youarethirtyyyearsoldnowactlikeit!!!!!"

Deep breath: as I was saying.

soberland

I also want to share with you something pretty personal. It's a book called Going Dry that I made for Detox Doc (lord how I miss him). Although the book was printed with a dedication to him, it is for you all as well.



It's short and mostly photos that you're familiar with. If you click the image, it'll download the file, which is 1.6 MB. I hope you like it.

xo

Update: Someone asked me to post a link to purchase a bound copy of 'Going Dry,' so here it is.

fumb as duck

I took a leave of absence from Soberland, as Detox Doc likes to call it, and tried to go to a place called Moderationland. At first it worked, and then it didn't really work, and then I did some things that were not part of the plan, including cocaine and fucking a friend...something I have managed to not do up until now. Not god-awful or anything, but things continued to go a little haywire and my body just felt on a wreckage course. Still, I would have probably tried to continue my stay in Moderationland only I ended up on this funny date last night...

I haven't been on OkCupid in forever, and then I got a random message from a young guy that really said nothing. But, unlike the last OKC experience, we actually planned a date by the third email. We all know how unpicky I am, but I thought maybe I should actually try and glean some information about him before I met up with him, so I looked at his profile and saw that he didn't smoke, didn't drink, and didn't do drugs--which is pretty odd for a 25-year-old guy who lives in New York City, don'cha think. That's when a light went off in my head and I realized the last time I'd updated my profile, I was deep in the heart of Soberland. I hastily sent him a message, explaining the situation. And the next day, he replied quite charmingly that he had recently gotten out of rehab, and that he'd still be down to hang out, provided we didn't go to a bar.

I can now say that I've been invited, on a first date, to attend, as a second date, an NA meeting. And I can also now say that I've been extremely shamed into hearing the own denial in my voice, when I heard myself saying why I never stuck with the groups, and why I didn't like Soberland, and why I thought I could conquer Moderationland. I sat with this young guy who had just returned from a 60-mile bike ride and was just oozing goodwill and gaining strength with the knowledge of his own limitations while I am still pointlessly pushing on mine, seeing that they are still there, and telling myself I can overcome them by...overcoming them.

I think it was the first time I didn't finish a hamburger.

So, yeah. Moderation...not working. Not really. I can feel it, not working. I don't know why I thought I could moderate drinking, when I can't do it with anything else in my life. And, as a result of this very nice boy being very nice, I wouldn't let him touch me. I also don't know why I went out with him when I'm planning to leave the city in less than two months. I have shit to do, and I am behind schedule.

I am returning to Soberland. Not because it was such a great place to be, but because I am now too tall for Moderationland. Every time I stand up I hit my head in there.

l'chaim

On Thursday, Keetens passed along some words of wisdom by Cary Tennis to a girl lamenting the new, boring persona of her recently sober friend. I've never read him before, but I really have to give Keets a million trillion thanks for this link, which also resonated with me as someone who has spent many an hour entertaining a small, select few at Murio's Trophy Room on Haight Street, but more importantly as an aspiring journalist who is pathetically intimidated by the threat of hard work and defeat. I love it when people can say, without a hint of immodesty, that "We get sober and become boring because our brilliance deserves to live." It's something that I could never bring myself to say. Chinese people just aren't like that. I think the closest thing we could say we be something along the lines of, "Maybe the brilliance of the Emperor could shine through if we could only sober up long enough."

On the other hand, I understand the feeling of not wanting to hang out with someone who appears to be the shadow of whom she once was because of a major life decision. Sometimes you just think that you've grown apart. Life is long, and people change. Especially when you come into contact with as many people as we do in our lives, you can't hold onto everyone (although some of us try). I was empathizing with the writer of the letter until she made the remark that the newly sober friend's art was now "local-gallery good, not Artforum good." I mean, was this her agent, or her friend? I guess we all want to see our friends performing their best, and the remark stung a little because of course I fear that all these attempts at emotional well-being are just like little cyanide pills for all of my creative projects that mean anything to me.

I'm hoping this fear is wrong, though. I looked around me last night. I feel good about the photo work I've done in the past few months--partially because it's become a new outlet to keep my mind off other things, and partially because I know that I couldn't have done it on the booze train. And this was a visual sign to me last night that even when I am standing, struck silent and dumb and thinking "I know what's happening but I don't really and maybe I should go but why is this such a big fucken deal it's just booze/coke/pot/ you dealt with this last night it's the same thing these are your friends everything is okay they're not out to get you; be calm; be still; say something; wait; no; don't say anything; you don't have to say anything; were they talking to you? If they were talking to you, then you have to say something..."

I cannot wait for the day when I'm secure enough in my own skin to not constantly feel the need to perform. In Tennis's piece, that's what he says The Booze is largely about, performing for free, at least in the context of others. But The Booze isn't just about the act of performing, it's also about attendance, and I think that partaking makes you part of an audience to a spectacle, and that lately I just feel left out a lot of the time. I honestly can't tell if it's because I'm not drinking or if it's just that I'm naturally on a different mental plane from lack of television and consistent Internet facetime. I have to admit, when the conversation turns uber-drunk, or uber pop-culture, I retreat to a special place in the corner of my brain...

When I went sober in November, I made the arbitrary goal of lasting through to my birthday. I had the intention of powering through the next four-odd months with my regular determination and then enjoying a typical balls-out meltdown to congratulate myself on my willpower and resolve. It wasn't until I was talking it through with Detox Doc that I realized what a stupid "plan" that was, and the idea of throwing all these months of hard work out the window in front of all the people who have supported me through it pretty much undermined the whole concept of respect and trust among friends. Color me humbled.

My friends, a juice toast to you, at the commence of my 30th year of life. (I am 29 years old, so this is the start of my 30th year, yeah?) This is to all y'all. Life is busy, and it's not easy to stay in touch with everyone. I'm not on Facebook or MySpace a lot. I don't call or write as much as I should, and I've retreated into this sober corner of my brain where the world exists in pictues of deserts and mountains and not so much people and words lately. Thank you to you all for being a part of my life, for creating a context of normalcy when things are erratic and for providing inspiration when things are drab. Thanks for keeping me in check. Thanks for your love. Thanks for keeping it real.

I love you more than you know.

subway catharsis

I've made it through finals, a month of travels through Soberland, and was blessed by a weekend visit from two of my guardian angels, Girlfriend and Sharp. I don't know how, but somehow I have collected some of the most loving, devoted people on this whirling ball of carbon. I had been hotly anticipating them coming, but kind of not believing that two people unrelated to me by blood would love me enough to fly across the goddamned country for the weekend just to lay eyes on me and make sure I was doing okay. It kind of freaked me out when I got home Friday morning from my yoga class and there they were. The confusion almost made my head explode.

The takeaway messages from the weekend were that (a) I am abnormally harsh on myself, (b) Undoing this is a long and arduous process (b.1: but I AM GODDAMN WORTH IT!!!!!!!!!), and (c) I absolutely cannot do this without my friends.

I spent about an hour and a half crying on the subway yesterday, 45 minutes with Girlfriend as I rode with her halfway to JFK, and then another 45 minutes on my way home from yoga class. There is something deeply satisfying about crying on the subway. You are in public, you are moving, and you are crying. It's like you get to disperse your emotions through the crowd, leave them somewhere else, and get off somewhere else, refreshed.

When I got off the train at 181, this dreadful station on the 1 line where you are forced to take an elevator to exit the station. This is the stuff that my worst nightmares are made of, because if you are a control freak like me, you like to have stairs that you can run up and down in case of emergency. Like I was telling Doll the other day, I grew up not being allowed to wear flip-flops on airplanes in case the need to run should arise. Well, as I finished crying and neared my destination, the nightmare came true. The doors opened at 181st and we walked off into a haze of smoke because the fucken station was on fire. At first everyone just calmly covered their faces with their hoodies and scarves and walked toward the elevators, but then someone screamed "FUEGO!!!! AIIIEEE!!!" Then, of course, people started to run and scream and push.

There was a part of me that wanted to self-preserve, that wanted so much to make it out of the smoke and up and out and onto the street, to live and to breathe and to be okay. When Sharp asked me one night how I've suddenly gone from Detox Doctor's estimate of 56 drinks a week to zero, I shrugged and almost cried in front of Duff's. As I nimbly made my way through the smoke I suddenly recognized what was keeping me going, because it was kicking into especially high gear at that very moment: a desperate, adrenaline-filled part of my body that I suddenly recognized as what has been what has been keeping me alive during the past few weeks, in the absence of booze and drugs, in tandem with pharmies, and it is also what is making it difficult for me to sleep at night. It is hard to turn off. Survival instinct! So strange, so natural, so unconnected to brain, just body.

But as we choked on smoke as a motley crew of men and women and children the color of the rainbow, my brain mostly thought "I am going to die down here and at last I will be at peace."

Detox doctor says: we will work on this.

serious sobriety

I'm on Dry Day 3, only this time I'm being sponsored by Ativan and I'm not feeling as panicky as I was on that horrible week in Sober September.

Doctor $400 (how much she charges for an hour) says that maybe the low-grade fever (101) I was running last night was a result of withdrawal. So now I'm on Ativan, which is a benzodiazepine drug, meaning it's like a muscle relaxer/anti-anxiety medication. I'm feeling quite a bit funny, which is better than FREAKING OUT by a long shot. Last week Doctor 4 said to me that maybe I should think about going sober as an adventure, to not be afraid. He said, "Can you think about it the same way you thought about going to Charleston? Like, 'I'm going to Sober-land!'" It made me laugh so hard. But now I'm enlisting the help of DJE to turn "Funkytown" into "Soberland" so I can listen to it in the mornings. Rad!

Ysterday I was shocked to get a voicemail from John, whom I spurned pretty hard several weeks ago. To try and excise all men from my life, I wrote both John and Joe a message and posted it on Missed Connections.

My MC to Joe and John

I usually think that my intense conversations with people are enough, but then they call me later, so hopefully this will be okay.

But you know me, I go crazy without boy drama in my life, so I've decided to have a long-distance email love affair with ACLU, who emailed me this week. It was such a charming email, and I wonder how I am going to respond to it. I think it'll be fun.

I'm not sure about sober-land, but Ativan-land is so far, so good.

hope and change, and it's not about obama

...though I am so anxious about tomorrow's election that I don't know what to do!!

BTW, free Starbucks on election day, heads up...

On the advice of my new CMC doc, I'm "sobriety sampling" this week. I promised to try and do three drinks per day. I'll actually be happy with six. Gotta start somewhere. But, in an effort to do due diligence, I've switched to wine, so I can indulge my oral fixation for longer periods of time and not feel like I'm depriving myself.

I've been secretly obsessing over the nice man I met last weekend in Chahlston, and thinking that I really should marry an older man, and possibly even someone who lives all the way across the country. That would get rid of so many Y-chromosome-related challenges in my life, at least for the moment. I've never dated someone significantly older than me and I think the stability would be such a good thing for me. Maybe he would find my fear and loathing somehow charming. Or he would just put up with it because I'm twenty years younger than him.

So I haven't called Joe in two weeks, since that night I called him up and he came over to calm me down. He very sweetly offered to make me dinner when I got back, but I have been in such a wretched mood that the only people I can bear to speak to, much less be around, are people whom I've known for at least three years. He called me tonight and something tells me I'm not going to call him back. Suddenly all I can think is, "What the fuck would I say?" This is the problem when I ease off the drink. My body has some kind of liquid quota, and it just fills in the gaps with piss and vinegar.

But I'm trying. I have to keep telling myself that it's just like quitting smoking, that the moodiness will pass. I just wish it was May and not November, and that I was pulling out my sandals and pretty dresses and not putting them away. I have *such* a hard time with the cold.

Anyhow, Big Brother thinks I should stop hanging out with everyone I know who tolerates my misbehavior. Hence my third night at home in a row, though to be fair we did cook a massive dinner last night, and Saturday night Entourage kept me company. Trimming the fat to me means Joe, even though he has expressed interest in going sober with me. I guess I just don't believe him. John said the same thing about the coke, but that lasted all of one day. I guess more than belief in someone, I just don't think that anyone can take care of me except for me. That's not being cynical, I don't think, just realistic.

I just don't want sobriety to be lonely. But today Doc hit a nerve when he got me to reveal just how insecure I am when I am sober, how I allow my thoughts to torture me, how at times I feel like it's about to happen...that the destructo part of my psyche will finally win this war of attrition, and I will just SNAP violently or silently disintegrate...and that it will surprise people even more than it surprises me, because lately it's been harder and harder to engage in self-deception.

This blog is really on its way out. I feel like it's started to replace real human interactions. I assume that the ten or so of you read it and that I don't have to explain myself to you anymore, and I think this is a bad thing.

November be damned. We will win, I will win, we will get through this.

motivation and change, institutionalised

Yesterday a counselor at $chool referred me to the Center for Motivation and Change, what she described as a "skills center" for wealthy, functional people. I think she said something like, "Oh, you know, it's full of like, stockbrokers and lawyers who know that they party too much." It kind of cracked me up. It is totally expensive and the home page is littered with stock photos of Buddha and bamboo, but apparently $chool will cover parts of it, which I find both hilarious and exciting. I am motivated to change, thank you very much. I just don't really believe it is possible, when poisoning myself slowly has proved itself so effective and accessible.

Last night I smoked a spliff, watched Ciao, Professore! and went to sleep at 8:30. It was so needed. I was so bitchy and exhausted Sunday night that I almost didn't go out when Curly called me over to Red's for what has become a weekly Sunday night cookout, followed by dancing at Black Betty. But of course I did go, and didn't get home until almost 4 a.m., and so I was a sad sight yesterday, trying to talk to the counselor and conduct a phone interview with an ICT policy wonk in DC. He was interesting though. Functional and wealthy! Hah! That makes me laugh in my most sad, deeply cynical way.

up to no good

So...shit has been crazy lately, and not in a good way. Went to the CP and read to her. I read to my doctors when I feel like I am just going to go in a blather on unproductively because there's so much on my mind that I want to explode...

This is what I read to her:

I feel fucking terrible, tweaky, horrible, and I am just sitting here waiting to leave to go speak to the CP and tell her yes, I want to see a psychiatrist, I want drugs drugs drugs drugs drugs! I want Xanax; I want tranquilizers; I want to beat my head against the wall so I can pass out and dream about unicorns and oceans and clouds. It is bizarre. I have been on the verge of tears since I woke up this morning. There was a moment when I swore I could feel all these tiny pieces of ecstasy flooding my skull and soaking my brain tissue, and then I got the chills and felt very cold. I couldn’t believe it, but I wanted coffee and cigarettes despite feeling so tweaky tweaky tweaky and I had both and felt a little better. Maybe it’s just the force of habit that I find calming.

Yesterday I was a tweakfest. I could hardly sleep and when I woke up I felt like I was so awake that I could hardly breathe. Neighbor popped in and I think I scared her but I cooked her food and ranted about my borough tour the previous night where I somehow went from Williamsburg to Hell’s Kitchen to Park Slope and then to the East Village and still made it home by five. I was so tired and all I wanted to do was sleep but I woke up at nine. I tried to read boring things to sleep, but I was so tweaky that I had to go outside and run up the hills in Fort Tryon to try and burn it out of my system. Thank god Friend appeared on the scene and we talked about all our issues and lay on the floor of the Elifur Oliasson exhibit at PS1 and giggled at the mirror on the ceiling spinning around and around. Friend asked me what my deepest dark fear was and I thought about it for a long time and said that I fear that my mind will turn against me and destroy me. He said the same thing. Then we lay and laughed so hard that I cried. I felt so high and beautiful and happy.

It’s funny because if you ask me about my weekend I’d say it was great fun. I got some shit done at Strong and Whisper’s and I felt calm, good. Strong has a calming effect on me. I feel like my thoughts are in order when she is around, maybe it’s because she thinks she’s crazy and out of control. It’s when I’m alone that I feel the worst and most desperate. This morning I had the old feeling of wanting to jump into traffic and that’s when I thought I must see a psychiatrist and he must give me drugs and I must take them. I can’t shake the feeling that something terrible is about to happen. I know that it’s coming. Once again I think of K and that infamous line of his as he comes out of meth hell and probation: "It’s okay. I knew it was going to happen.”

The boys are driving me crazy, and I am letting them. John texted me Saturday and we are going out on Tuesday. Fucking JOE called me last night and I was drunk and didn’t know who it was and we are going out on Wednesday. Today Sohji, the beautiful Caribbean boy I met Saturday night texted me and left me a voicemail which I am scared to pick up, because I told him he could take me out on Thursday and I know I’m going to go and I hate myself for it and I don’t know why. Last night I found myself at Black Betty dancing with Model and Red and Red’s Brother and Curly, who makes me delirious with desire. I went outside and sat on the curb, all drunk and stoned and wondered what the fuck I was doing there, if Friend was right, and if I’m about to start hurting people, hurting boys by playing with them too hard. John has already been hurt by me. But it’s not my fault. As I was leaving, Model grabbed me and asked me what my deal was, why I don’t call him. I don’t understand why we are like this, why these boys think they can claim me, and they get angry when I tell them they can’t, and they still want me and I still hang out with them. It’s bad for everyone. I think this is what Friend was talking about. I feel like I’m about to destroy someone, and they are going to destroy me right back and I will have deserved it.

My mother is coming on Friday for the weekend. I am terrified for her to see me like this. The thing is, she doesn’t have to. I can spend all weekend with her walking and reading and eating and telling her about cute boys and parties and my thesis and my novel and take her out with friends and never talk about anything. I don’t want her to worry about me. But more than that, I don’t want her to see that I’ve failed to recover from what worried her so much so long ago. I don’t want her to know, but I do. I don’t know if I should tell her what’s going on. I think she would want to know, but what would that accomplish? If she could have done something, she would have.

S.A.D. x2

This afternoon I went to Counseling and Psychological Services. I made the appointment last week when I started freaking out about my adventures in sobriety. My nerves felt really shot; they still kind of do even though I have been drinking for the last three nights. I have also been largely unable to sleep. I popped awake this morning at seven and went for a jog even though (a) I don't have class today and (b) I didn't get to sleep until around 3 a.m.

My Clinical Psychologist is young. I almost think she is younger than me, but is that possible? Can you be a CP by the age of twenty-eight? I wonder.

Anyhow I laid out my whole history for her, which I actually read to her from a document I'd written last night at 2 a.m. because I was losing my voice to the extent that I thought I'd be unable to speak when I got to the appointment. I could speak, but I figured I might as well read what had taken me almost an hour to write.

CP told me some interesting things that I'd never really considered. She said my withdrawal symptoms were normal but that it wasn't a good idea for me to quit drinking cold turkey due to the amount that I drink. She said I could have had a seizure! and that it would probably be in my best interests to continue to drink, but to try and moderate it down a bit. Instead of twelve drinks, she said, try to have eight.

After some time she said I would "definitely qualify" for Substance Abuse Disorder by the standards of the DSM. And I thought Seasonal Affective Disorder was enough! Now I'm twice as SAD! (that was a crazy joke! laugh!) Apparently people with Substance Abuse Disorder can get some bomb free treatment here in New York. She doesn't know why, but people who are this SAD are taken very seriously. I'm not quite clear how this SAD is different than, say, alcoholism, or what have you, but there it is. Next week we will try to talk about Abuse versus Dependence. This is why I hate this kind of shit. What you call it doesn't really matter. All I know is that when I don't drink continuously I feel fucked up. Isn't it so weird that you can have withdrawal from The Booze? You can have heart failure and shit. She also said it's normal that I got sick. But not good. It's kind of funny because I don't think I can have a drinking problem, it's just that I drink so much that my body wants it now. I was mentally okay without drinking, it's just that my body felt like shit. That's what happens when you spend 4-10 hours a night drinking for a many many years at a time.

I'm glad I can go back to drinking. I didn't think my nerves were going to last. 

Sober September

I am not a happy camper this week. Sobriety has left me in a cold, unstable place, and this morning when I woke up, I coughed up blood. It's not like I'm mentally fiending for alcohol, it's just that I don't understand why I feel so much better when I'm allowed to drink 3-15 drinks each evening.

Oh wait, yes I do understand why I feel so much better. I guess what I don't understand is why it's so bad for me.

The day before yesterday I received an email from a friend who disappeared six years ago from San Francisco. I'd heard he'd rejoined the world and was looking for me, so the email wasn't a total-total surprise, but let's just say that there was a lot in that three-paragraph email. It was the kind of email you can write when you hit rock bottom and completely lose: any sense of shame, any desire to embellish/entertain with your stories, the ability to restrain yourself from telling every single person how much you love them.

Aside from the bare facts and indicators of having crawled out of hell but still being on all fours, one of his last sentences really got to me. He said, "It's okay--I knew it was going to happen." The first "it" referring to life, oneself, the general state of affairs, and the second "it" referring to all the bleak allusions to hell. This simple statement really got to me. It makes perfect sense that we should drive ourselves through shit like this, knowing full well where it will take us. It doesn't make any sense, but we do it.

And, I suppose, this is what drove me back to seek some psych services this week for the first time in more than eight years. I don't want to say this statement to myself, that it is okay, that I knew it was going to happen. I don't want that to resonate with me the way it did. I know where things are going. They have been going there for the past few years, and they are progressing in a way that seems manageable and socially acceptable. I also know that I'm really good at (a) coping via self-medication, (b)going through extreme work-reward cycles, (c) spacing out my social engagements so that few people see how hard I'm hitting it every single night. I'm one of those girls that thinks to herself, "What was I wearing the last time I saw this person?" Only these days I think in terms of how fucked up I was the last time.

It's my September regression, and it scares me. I am too old for this shit.

singledom

I am sick of being single, I am leering at babies, and I am not happy about either of these things. I don't know what to do about it, because I am basically attracted to EVERYONE and their best friends, brothers, roommates, cousins. It's kind of gross. I don't know when I turned into such a drunken floozy, but the transition has been kind of a good time.

This week I've been especially faced with the gross realization that I am a shameless flirt, which could explain a lot: why I'm single, why I love to drink so much, and why I always attract the wrong sort of guys. Above all, it explains why I confuse people so much. For most people, flirting is the precursor to serious business like sex and relationships, and for me it's more like an end in and of itself. Flirting is about all the interpersonal engagement I can handle these days.

I got some phone numbers last night (great party, keets!) and someone has been texting me today. With some help, I am trying to figure out if it is this guy who I thought was so so cute or this other guy with whom I had a crazy connection and would probably be someone I could marry. (what did I just say? what?) But that is the way I am feeling about EVERYONE lately. I could love you forever! Stay away.

The farewell to The Ex may have something to do with my rage against singledom this week. My friend and I were talking yesterday about how it hurts to be around exes when you're single, because that person has a piece of your heart, and your heart wants to reclaim it, make itself whole again, whenever it gets near that piece. Kind of like magnets I guess. This made a lot of sense to me. At the same time, you don't want the piece back, because you gave it to them, and you want them to have it. But the ache is still there. It's not as bad when you're attached, because someone has given you a piece of their heart, and it helps to fill that void.

You know what else helps? Escalating quantities of booze. Except then the next day you get to hang out with your hangover all day, and think about why you are single.