strange musings of a distracted spunk

For me, it started on the bus.

She had been in a few of my classes; almost all of them, actually, but we didn’t talk. She thought I wasn’t cool enough, because I didn’t care what other people thought of me. She was the envy of most girls in our classes because she was tall, with long blond hair, and she could eat for days without gaining a single pound. Not to mention, she was model pretty.

One day, we started talking on the bus. Did I reach out to her? Did she reach out to me? We both lived outside the town our high school was in, so we rode the same small bus. When her friend was dropped off early on in the bus ride, I became the default. It never bothered me; I just liked having someone to talk to to kill time.

Over time, we grew closer. Our conversations extended to instant messages. We chatted during drama practice and lunch. We even talked during class. By the time we got to the end of sophomore year, there was something infinitely more comfortable than it had been the year before. She was less concerned with pretenses. I still didn’t care. But I began to genuinely like her, and not just as someone to talk to. She came to my sweet sixteen and sat next to me, even though I didn’t yet consider her my closest friend. Those pictures tell a story we didn’t know was taking place.

Junior year changed everything. We both came back from summer with boyfriends. She kept hers for years, while I discarded the first, and moved onto another. Sex was now an option. We would sit in the very back seat of this small little bus, talking about what our boyfriends liked and what we liked. We talked about how we felt. We talked about the annoyances of high school. I was more than ready to leave, but she was still feeling her way through the halls. We described sex, graphically. We discussed penises, having never really seen them before. We talked about articles we’d find on how to leave our man satisfied.

I woke up one day, and she was my best friend.

I can’t imagine what other people on our bus thought, had they overheard us. We wouldn’t always sit together. Sometimes, we’d sit in the two back seats, so she could finish putting her makeup on, but when the bus became more crowded, she would move over to my seat. I don’t know that we made any attempt to be quiet. Self-consciousness had no place in our little corner of the bus. It was here where we could hash out everything on our minds; the future, the past, the present. We ran over every article of thought, like a highway to overanalyzation. There was nothing too big or too small for us, and by the time we graduated, she knew almost everything about me and I her. We understood each other. We understood why we did the things we did, and why we didn’t. She knew the most about my parents and family, and we would talk about them on the bus, sun pouring in through the unlatched open windows so we could enjoy the fresh air, despite the grit and dirt of my memories.

That bus is probably no longer in service. Yet, that bus holds a memory I don’t even have; of how we became friends. Of how ten years later, she is still the first person I turn to because she knows where I came from. It holds the teenage gossip and babbling that we thought was so important at the time, only to find out that the world largely disagrees. Except for sex. Sex is always important. The bus is inscribed with the words of our high school lives, the stories of where we were going and how did we get there, and us.

Sometimes, I wish I could find that bus, and see if there would still be the two girls in the back corner trading tips, test answers, paper topics, and friendship. Would they be as close as we are now? Would they have double-dated throughout college and visited each other, and even flown across oceans for one another? Would they still do as much for each other now as they did then?

For me, it started on the bus.

Settling in is a lot harder than I thought.

It doesn’t help that my body has fine-tuned itself to fall asleep between eleven and twelve, and rise before eight. Further exacerbated by my now religious ritual of driving my sister to the bus. There are three cats waiting to be fed when I wake up, and sometimes, this involves them sitting on my head. Or at least being outrageously flirtatious and allowing me to pick them up for a few seconds longer than they’d normally allow. To be fair, we’re still not sure what the youngest cat thinks she is; her “sqgurks” and “-ehp” sends me into hilarious laughter every time.

But my room is significantly messier here than it was in Berkeley. Maybe because I still haven’t found a proper home for everything yet? Here, my past, present, and future all collide. The Care Bear I used to carry with me as a child. The black and white cat my stepfather gave me when I had surgery. The brand new dress I bought for my birthday party on Friday. I struggle, feeling slightly like an unwilling archaeologist, accidentally digging up the artifacts of my time. There are memories stored in every pocket, every corner, every box and bin and yaffa block. Most of which, I had put aside for the time being.

I have to borrow my sister’s earring rack for the time being, which is a bit of a struggle, seeing as I have over eighty pairs of earrings and hers can only fit about forty of mine. It’s strange accidentally glancing at the headless earring mannequin that holds six of my earrings, but seems to wonder where her head went. In a lot of ways, I feel as though I can relate.

The job hunt is not having it. I wonder if I need to dress myself up - professional clothing to yield professional results? More often than not, I sit at my parents’ makeshift dining room table in pajamas, scrubby hair and face, and bemoan the lack of publishing jobs that I’m actually interested in applying. The job industry is one that far forgets the long-term effects of positive reinforcement. Just a single, “We’re interested,” would be lovely; proof that all those cover letters and proofreads are worth my time.

But the thing that hits the hardest is…when I wake up, everyone else is still asleep. It used to be that when I woke up, everyone on the East coast was bustling away, starting on their day, and I would have plenty to keep me distracted. Avocado and I were on the same time zone, Thailand was always up before bed, and I could begin my day-long conversations with my friends. GDB would have invariably dropped a line or twenty. Now, I wake up to several lines from GDB who has this uncanny poor timing of signing on after I fall asleep. I blame the central time zone. I wait for everyone else to slowly wake up, get their coffees, churn their minds, while I’ve been sitting and wondering what to do today for the last two hours.

It’s a strange feeling, feeling so purposeless. I feel as though I should try to make sense of my new room (for it is new; my parents moved into this house a year ago. I’ve never lived here; only visited.) I feel as though I should foster better relations with my three cats. I feel as though I should be writing a book or more stories or just writing in general. And instead, when someone asks me what I’ve done today, I can only answer, “I’m not sure.”

Is this what coming home means?

Edit: Good news! I just found out I am published in You’re Not the Only One, a book that dedicates its profit to the non-profit group, Warchild! Additionally, several other spectacular authors are published, including the ever-lovely Hope. Buy it here!

Sometimes I think my life is set up in polarizing opposites just to mock me.

Other times, I think if I hadn’t lived the life I have, I’d have less material to write about.

And still others, I wish I didn’t expect so much, even though I know certain things should be a given.

I wrote about my father and his lack of follow-through. He wants to see me on Monday. Part of me wants to blow him off, treat him as though he doesn’t matter, that I don’t care; but I do. I have a tie for him from Thailand, and I want to show him pictures. I still want his approval and I still want him to care. Even though when I landed in San Francisco on Friday and called him to tell him I was okay, he launched into a lecture about my boxes in his garage. Not “It’s so good to hear your voice.” Not “Welcome home!” Just, “I’m glad the plane landed safely, I was worried. By the way, you really should have let your grandparents open the box and unpack your clothes. They’re probably all mildewy and moldy since you shipped them here more than a month and a half ago.”

Hello to you too.

When I walked into the baggage terminal at JFK yesterday morning, I just happened to look to the right, while my mom happened to look up from the newspaper she was reading. It took us both a second before we realized who the other was. She jumped up to give me a hug and a kiss. And told me if I ever think of moving that far away from her again, she’s putting two ton bells around my neck. Breakfast at my grandparents? Involved a lot of squealing, hugs, kisses, and “I’m so glad you’re home. My heart feels better.”

How on earth were my parents were married for fourteen years?

I went to my paternal grandparents today, to say hello and pick up my clothes as I’ve been looking at the same ones for the last month and a half. Also, because I’ve been worried sick about my grandfather, who has been in and out of the hospital for the last two months. The first thing they did? Gave me a lecture that was more or less the same one as my father’s. No doubt they all sat around the kitchen table to discuss the current state of affairs; my white pencil skirt being eaten by moths and my black suit jacket being infiltrated by ants. I imagine my cousins, aunt and uncle, and all the grandchildren were invited to participate since it is an important family matter, obviously. Were my clothes to become traumatically damaged, it would completely affect the dynamics of my father’s family and upset the hierarchy of familial patterns that have been carefully cultivated after fifty something years. I imagine that this serious conversation was only disrupted by a request to pass the pita bread.

After the lecture, it occurred to them to say hello and hug me. Their response, so completely opposite from my maternal grandparents, upset me to the core. They told me, “It’d be nice if you went over to your cousin’s to see the new baby.” No “Welcome home.” No “I’m so happy to see you.” Just simply a disguised statement of “Your cousins are more important than you because they get married, live near us, and have babies.”

Sometimes, it’s enough to make a girl feel completely pointless. And wonder why she even bothers trying.

So I picked a fight with GDB. Things have been good lately; nothing serious. Just friendly banter and flirting; IMs and text messages, pictures and e-mails. He’s been doing his best to make me a part of his daily routine, even though we’re not dating. But today, after feeling as though I wasn’t good enough for my grandparents, wasn’t good enough for my dad, I just needed to be good enough for someone. So I picked a fight. And then we were discussing things I wasn’t ready to discuss. He got upset with me. I got upset with me. I walked away.

I realized later on what happened. And apologized. He replied, “It’s super frustrating when you pick these fights after you see your family. I’m doing the best I can to be there for you and you make me feel like I’m not doing enough.” Apparently, you can get sucker punched twice in one day by the people you love the most. It seems it’s easier for me to pass the hurt on to those who mean the most to me than take it all on by myself. It’s a battle Avocado and I have faced for years. Or perhaps after so many years of dealing, I just don’t have any more room in me to put it away. So it leaks out at the seams, and poisons everything and everyone around me.

I’m scared that three months at home is going to cull out the depression, singing a siren’s song. I’m afraid that I’ll collapse again, in empty arms and meaningless words. I’m afraid that I’ll never learn that no matter what I do, I’ll never get the approval I so desperately want, though I know I shouldn’t. I’m afraid I’ll ruin my own relationships by taking out my hurts on them.

I’ve only been home a day and I’m already frustrated. I wish my parents’ families weren’t so different. Then, I’d at least know not to feel so disappointed every time I think they might actually have cared.

Lost:

-Sunglasses

-Hair tie (after multiple instances of losing and finding it throughout the day.) Edit: Literally a minute after I hit publish, I grabbed my laundry out of my aunt’s dryer and my hair tie fell out. This is a magnificent hair tie.

 Found:

-Yellow shorted boy pulling down his pants for a full moon as my train passed by.

-One junior college boy who was very cute and friendly. (Do I look 20 or younger? I always get hit on by juniors in college on trains.)

-One belligerent alcoholic in the seat across from mine.

 Misplaced:

-Green jacket that I adore (in Avocado’s closet.)

-Cell phone charger (on Avocado’s floor.)

 Bought:

-Car cell phone charger. Might not be the best idea to get completely lost and have no phone nearby.

-Ipod charger that plays over the stereo.

-Super cute bathing suit. For the first time in almost ten years of friendship, Avocado and I actually bought the same one. The advantage to this is our days at the Jersey shore are over, so the chance of us wearing the same bathing suit out is slim to none. In the past, we often worried about wearing the same bag or accessories out, since this is more typical of our styles.

-Super cute rolling duffel bag that should fit all my clothes for Seattle, Vancouver, and Thailand. (I am so not looking forward to packing for this one.) On the bright side, it’s so colorful, it’ll be easy to spot in the baggage claim!

 Contemplating:

-Tickets to Vegas this weekend with my twin? We already agreed no getting married, unless it’s by Elvis.

-Why my boss called and said, “People have been asking where you’ve disappeared off to. What should I say to them?” I’m thinking, “Um…you fired me?” is probably not the best response.

-If leaving at 7:30 a.m. to drive on the Pacific Coast Highway is too early, when I’m slightly exhausted and should be in bed by now.

-Can I maybe take the Pacific Surfliner again, and all the way up to San Luis Obispo next time?

-Where my brain went that I’ve somehow become the most disorganized traveler. At this rate, I’ll have packages coming from multiple parts of the world and I wouldn’t even know what address to send it to!

-When to move back to my parents’ and for how long.

-Does my dressing as Carmen Sandiego for Halloween count as foreshadowing?

A year ago, if you had told me I would someday live in California, I would have laughed at you. A year ago, GDB and I were still circling each other, looking for the chinks in each other’s armor where we could slip through to endeavor forward on the march of relationship being. A year ago, I had a job where I read all day, and then went to class, and while class was getting on my nerves, I loved my job. A year ago seems like a mighty long time ago.

It seems funny to me that the last few weeks have found me struggling with different things. Rebound Boy. Student loans. GDB’s reappearance and subsequent announcements. My asshat of a roommate. Missing my social life from home. Wondering if I was still funny if I never laughed anymore on this coast. Figuring out what I need to do to make school work in the fall. Working overtime and stressing that this wasn’t a job I could do forever. What did I want to do? Declarations of love. Declarations of apathy. I’ve been bending every which way I can, and yet the hits still keep coming.

I taunted fate last night. “What else can you possibly do?”

Apparently, fate always has the last laugh.

I left my office this morning at 9:30. After arriving at 8:30. In that short hour, I managed to send out a few e-mails, schedule a few meetings, and get fired.

You would think I would have better been able to control myself. But there’s only so many times you can hear, “We’re not sure if this is the right fit.” I heard it once before, with AmeriCorps when they couldn’t decide if they wanted me to do more or less, and when I tried to do what they wanted, I failed anyway. I heard it again today, when they said, “You’re fantastic and we love having you, and you’re great at all the things we didn’t hire you for, but you’re not so good when it comes to the things we did.” Meaning, I suck at copying, filing, calendaring, and other basic administrative responsibilities.

I almost laughed. Am I being fired because I have a brain and prefer using it? Maybe it’s because the one day I called out sick last week after working overtime multiple weeks in a row, they panicked and thought I didn’t order their lunches. Am I being fired over lunches? This is almost absurd.

Yet tears still clogged up in my eyes and no matter how I tried to hide them, the red around my now turquoise colored irises gave them away. I was offered tissues. I was asked, “Do you want to talk about anything?”

Is there ever anything to talk about when you get fired?

I left, after it was disclosed that I could stay home for the next two weeks and they would still pay me anyway, until May 7th. I went home. I called my parents. The first time I’ve ever been fired.

On one hand, this solves the whole roommate asshat problem.

On the other hand, what am I going to do between now and school in September?

I cried. I texted my closest friends and e-mailed the ones who could maybe show me some hope. I realized, I now have four months of nothing to kill. So I thought about it.

What if I go to Thailand? And visit my best friend who has been living there for almost a year now? (And try to convince Lisa to get her passport and meet me there?) What if I do the famed drive down the California coast line, scarf blowing and wind in my hair? What if I stay with Avocado a few days in San Diego? And visit friends in L.A.? What if I extend my trip to Seattle to include Vancouver and spend more time with Princess Pointful? What if I drive back across the country in someone else’s car, just driving to see the lands and not necessarily even the sights? I learned in Arizona that I can happily gaze at a cacti-grown landscape for an hour without a single comment, admiring the beauty of such a stark land. What if I make this the road trip I’ve always wanted to take, my laptop my only companion and my thoughts centered on the scattered white lines of the road below?

Suddenly, the paycheck seemed insignificant. My passport flaunted its empty pages, with lands I’ve always wanted to but never have been. It still stings to know I couldn’t make it work here, after everything I’ve somehow endured. But somehow, having this physical escape from the shackles of this life that I constructed here suddenly makes all the difference in the world. Calmly, rationally, I posted all my furniture on Craigslist. I put together my list of things to do before I move. I made some tentative plans for the summer, feeling my way towards some form of income.

It’s not about California or bust anymore. Admittedly, I am hesitant to try my hand in a new city, but I am reluctant to make New York my safety. She should never be anyone’s safety.

In the gears of the landing wheels of a plane, the churning of a bus’s wheels, the quiet rev of a car’s engine, I don’t expect to find any of the answers I’ve been looking for. I know things are going to remain unsteady for a long time, wish as I may it weren’t. But I will find adventure, words on lined notebook paper inspired by my journeys, temporary escape from the things that have weighed heavily on my mind, dancing wind chimes upon a Pacific breeze.

I may not be leaving for a few more weeks, California, but you showed your teeth. And somehow? I know no matter what happens, I’ll land on my feet. Slightly worse for the wear, perhaps a bit battered and bruised from all the curveballs I’ve been hit with since moving here, I’m looking forward to leaving you behind. My story is meant to continue somewhere else.

I have a confession to make.

When I was fifteen? I was obsessed with Newsies. And I don’t mean I just watched it every single day, or sang along to the songs, and knew the dances by heart. No, I truly believed that I WAS a newsie in another life. Lucky for me, there were a bunch of other teenage girls who felt the same way (and a few guys), and that became the Newsies Mailing List. I wasn’t too interested in high school; somehow, I felt I had outgrown it before I had ever gotten there.

Ready? I am/was an uber geek. Role playing, fan fiction writing, so on and so forth. I found a few stories I wrote at the ripe old age of fifteen under a pseudonym, much like this one, all under the name of Copper. I don’t know how the name became ascribed to me, but it seemed perfectly suited for me. Beyond the surprising self-awareness I had for a fifteen year old, Jack of All Trades pointed out that there was something unerringly perfect about the name chosen for me. That copper, as a metal, has so many properties that are akin to the properties of what I suppose could be called the essence of me.

For instance, copper has excellent electrical conductivity. Electricity often sparks energy, and there’s most definitely a current of nervous and crackling energy that surges through me at any given moment. It’s what keeps my pen tipping and my hands moving, my feet tapping and my eyes darting to catch all that happens around me. There’s a reason part of my name is distracted.

The alchemy symbol of copper? Is also that of the goddess and planet Venus. I’ve got curves. I could be a goddess. Right?

Then there’s also this nifty trick that seems too good to be true. Copper doesn’t rust. Instead, it actually creates a protective layer against further corrosion when exposed to air. Hi, wall that surrounds my heart that has only recently been broken down but seems to be crawling back in? Meet air. Bonding? Good. Keep that protective spirit up! Oh, and if you wouldn’t mind keeping some of the shine? Cause I like being shiny and distracting. Once, on a roller coaster with Avocado, I saw shiny things flying in the air every time we went over a bump. It took me a few minutes to figure out that it was coins flying out of people’s pockets. Avocado didn’t notice this. Me? I was fascinated. And somehow, I didn’t get hurt! So wall, keep up the good work!

We use copper in just about anything and everything we can think of. Communications? Check. Buildings? Yes. Money? I’ll take more of that, please. Imagine if I were my own self-dispensing bank. My student loan debt would be a thing of the past. The idea of being transcedental is one that appeals to me, for I truly believe we experience life in so many forms to shape up the sum total of our experiences as we grow. And hey! In excess amounts, copper can be poisonous, even fatal to other organisms. I’ve never killed yet, but perhaps someday I will with my stunning wit and fabulous good looks. More likely, I’d trip into someone and after a whole slew of events, someone will end up with a fork in their arm. (Coincidentally, a lot of flatware is made with copper!)

There’s also the fact that copper is just an incredibly strong, durable metal. One thing I’ve learned over the last few years is that life sends a whole lot of crap my way. Unlike the proverbial curveball, I’m more or less driving down a curvy road, hoping that soon will come a straightaway that I can hit cruise control and go. I’ve figured out that life likes to play games; I keep hoping for eventual good karma to hit, but I know that no matter what comes my way, as frustrated and upset and unhappy as it might make me for the time being, I’ll still be here at the end of the day. Copper in its most tarnished state still holds strong, even when steel rusts and breaks down.

I never realized until tonight how fitting the moniker of Copper was, and not just because it adequately describes my hair color. It’s one of those metals that seems to be everywhere, but not consciously, much like I often feel. Sometimes, I feel like I’m walking through life, as an observer or as a participant but not as a spotlight like say gold or silver might be, or even bronze, and I’m okay with that. If I have to be a metal, copper is a pretty darn good one to be. At the end of it all, I know my fingers will still be crackling with all the energy soaring through me, the same energy that picks me up when my day or days are rough, keeps me moving, my legs walking in front of one another and an invisible string somehow keeping my head up. Sometimes, I feel like I’m nothing more than a conduit of energy, waiting for the next chance to be melded into something different, kinetic in its change, holistic in its element, copper to my very core.

100. I’ve been a dancer for probably longer than I could walk.
99. My parents lost me one night and found me break dancing in a night club on vacation.
98. I was two and a half.
97. I used to do gymnastics too, as well as tennis, until my parents made me pick one activity. I chose dance.
96. Several years later, I ended up doing circus stunts at my sleepaway camp. See: aerial lyra, swinging trapeze, static trapeze, and spanish web.
95. I miss it. Sometimes I look up classes and contemplate running away with the circus.
94. I was a Mr. Rogers girl through and through. Sesame Street was kinda bull, though I did enjoy Big Bird goes to China. Relatively.
93. My childhood room was covered in Rainbow Brite memorabilia. I even have a t-shirt still that says “Sharing is caring.”
92. I also loved My Little Pony and the Smurfs. There used to be a show with animals who had the body of one and the head of another, and I can’t for the life remember the name of them, but I loved that one too.
91. I lost my virginity when I was 16.
90. It was more a sort of…I wonder what this is all about than it was wanting to be with someone I loved.
89. I’m a lefty.
88. I’m one of four lefties in both sides of my family.
87. Both of my grandfathers have red hair, blue eyes, and were born lefty. They both write recreationally, but were taught to write with their right hands. My mother is the only other lefty, but she’s brunette with hazel eyes. She didn’t write; she performed.
86. I wasn’t born deaf.
85. Neither was my sister.
84. But they at least have a strong suspicion why she lost her hearing. I’m just a medical anomaly.
83. We’re the only ones in our entire families.
82. I think my mom blames herself, while my dad blames some doctor he thinks misdiagnosed me.
81. I’m technically third generation American on one side, and first generation American on the other.
80. My dad was born in Israel. It’s made for interesting dynamics.
79. I tend to get bitten by the wanderlust bug often. I’ve traveled to Israel, Spain, Chicago, moved across country, and other places, all rather impulsively. I’ve also traveled to many other places, but those were less impulsive.
78. The first time I fully understood the Holocaust was when I was in fifth grade. It shocked me to realize that I would have been one of the first killed, for my coloring and for my poor vision and poor hearing.
77. It took me another year or two to realize almost all of my paternal grandparents’ relatives were killed in the Holocaust. Including my grandfather’s baby sister.
76. If there were ever one person I’d like to meet or bring back, I’d wish for her so my grandfather would have had her in the lonely years between her death and his next sibling. He might have had a childhood then.
75. I’ve only been in love once.
74. I still am.
73. My first best friend’s name was Ilana. She had a swimming pool in her backyard, and I wrote my first book about her.
72. She moved to Florida when I was five. I saw her again when I was sixteen, on a family trip.
71. Sometimes I think I’ve led a really easy life.
70. Other times, I think I’ve been put through more than most people have, and deserve a fine karmic break for the rest of my life.
69. It still destroys me every time my parents fight. It’s become easier now on this side of the country. I’m nervous to go home because I like not being in the middle anymore.
68. I was a commitment-phobe for the longest time, because I couldn’t imagine ever feeling passionate or interested enough in one person to want to be with them for the rest of my life. I also never wanted to inflict the kind of pain on my children, should I have them, that I experienced growing up.
67. I had a german shepherd named Gingi growing up. It means red in Hebrew.
66. My grandmother calls me gingi calavasa. I still don’t know what calavasa means.
65. My family stopped teaching me Hebrew when I lost my hearing.
64. Some doctor told my parents I’d be lucky if I ever spoke English, let alone Hebrew, and should be locked away so as to not burden my parents.
63. I’m glad they didn’t listen.
62. We used to go to special gala affairs at the New York Aquarium for the League of the Deaf and Hard of Hearing.
61. I will always have a special fondness for the aquarium, even if it is much smaller now than I remember it being.
60. I still sleep with the teddy bear my dad brought back from Boston when I was seven.
59. But only on nights when I feel lonely and cold.
58. I’ve known Thailand since before we were born. I didn’t get much of a choice with him in terms of our friendship.
57. Our moms were each others’ bridesmaids, and we were born a month and a half apart. We’ve been more or less stuck together since then.
56. I’ve managed to sprain at least one ankle once a year, up until I was about twenty one. I’m hoping my streak is broken.
55. Once, I hobbled all over New York City with K as we wandered around, having sprained an ankle the day before.
54. I’ve also managed to step on a kickball and go flying in the air, sprain both ankles days apart, and jam a finger. All in the same summer.
54. Sometimes, I still wonder if there will ever be anything again with D.
53. My mom thought we were going to do a When Harry Met Sally.
52. So did I. We didn’t. And we won’t. But I still wonder anyway.
51. I can find traits of myself in all four of my grandparents, but more presently, in my grandfathers.
50. My paternal grandfather and I could be identical twins if we were the same age and the same gender.
49. We aren’t. So we just argue a lot.
48. I’ve fainted two times.
47. The first was when I was ten, and got a Hepatitis B vaccine.
46. The doctor gave me pretzels and M&Ms with orange juice upon my reawakening.
45. I still remember the taste of all three in my mouth. It was surprisingly pleasant.
44. I don’t recommend blacking out. Everything shrinks, and surprisingly, my hearing was the last to go, even though I could no longer see anything anymore. It was strange relying on my hearing rather than my sight. Then I woke up on the floor.
43. On the bright side, both times I fainted happened to be in a doctor’s presence. The second time, I happened to be volunteering in the ER at the local hospital.
42. I’ve been to the ER several times. Most recently for pneumonia. In the past, it’s involved sprained ankles, jammed fingers, as a volunteer EMT, and lots of x-rays.
41. The first house I lived in was a small row house in Brooklyn, in the middle of the block. We had an alley behind our house.
40. At the end of the alley, a friend of mine lived. He had a treehouse. I would often scale the chainlink fence and hop to the other side to play with him and his brother in the treehouse.
39. While we lived in said house, my sister dropped a radiator on my right foot during a game of hide and seek.
38. It didn’t break, but it was badly bruised. It still hurts when it rains. I was nine.
37. The second place we lived was a two family house across the street from a small park.
36. I never knew how small it was - my mom did the best she could to give us a proper home, despite the recent divorce she had just undergone.
35. It had two bathrooms, adjacent to one another. One black and one blue.
34. I cut my bangs once in the black bathroom, after thinking my hairstylist cut them unevenly.
33. I spent the rest of the summer with the most godawful curly bangs bouncing in front of my eyes.
32. That might explain why I didn’t cut my hair for another five years after that disastrous cut.
31. In high school, the girls sitting behind me would pull my corkscrew curls, just because they liked to watch my hair bounce. Our teacher would yell at them for disrupting the class, or at least mildly berate them.
30. I met Avocado in high school. She wasn’t my biggest fan when we first met.
29. That’s since changed. But we usually have one big fight a year.
28. The only song that can effectively make me cry is “The Trouble with Love Is,” by Kelly Clarkson.
27. I can’t explain why I can understand or hear music in ways that don’t make sense to most doctors.
26. Then again, I tend to come across as a medical mystery in all shapes and forms. When they do my autopsy, they’ll find I have three misshapen hearts, one highway of a vein connecting my body, four overclogged arteries of memories and unspoken thoughts, and one brain that segments itself between my right pinky toe, left knee, left rib cage, right clavicle, and parts in my head where it properly belongs.
25. I’ve been on and off writing a novella/novel for the last four years.
24. I don’t know if it’s going to go anywhere.
23. If I were to be a Disney character, I’d be a mix between Ariel and Belle, with a healthy dash of Abu thrown in. And perhaps a little bit of Rafiki.
22. One of my cousins told me tonight that she loves how I don’t ever express emotion. I laughed and thought, if she only knew about this blog.
21. Neither sides of my family adequately understand me. But at least my mom’s side tries.
20. Sometimes, I feel like I’m living a teenage rebellion now, even though I went through my rebellion phase when I was 12.
19. I volunteered with a first aid squad for two years.
18. While I was there, the guys nicknamed me jailbait. I was a bit of a tease. I ended up tied up and tossed in an empty garbage can by one of the guys who was frustrated with me, because I wouldn’t go anywhere with him. Luckily, Techny Besty pulled me back out.
17. What most of them didn’t know was I was sleeping with a 20 year old and a 26 year old when I was only seventeen. Both of them were on the squad.
16. I don’t know what I want to do or where I want to live anymore. I used to think I did. Now I feel like this country is too small, and they need to build a new city that is the perfect blend of New York, San Francisco, and Chicago.
15. Sometimes I think I will never speak to GDB ever again. And then I realize that I talk to K and D, who hurt me in a way I never thought I’d recover from.
14. I taught myself how to use power point, illustrator, and photoshop in high school, because I was bored.
13. I like teaching myself how to do things. I feel a sense of accomplishment. I’d often rather learn from a book than have someone else tell me how to do it.
12. I don’t think I’m sexy outside of the framework of someone else telling me I’m sexy. I think I’m cute, but I never considered myself sexy until GDB.
11. I don’t struggle from low self-esteem. But I do struggle with overanalyzing everything to death.
10. I tend to feel like a walking contradiction most days.
9. I’m strangely attracted to nerds. My house’s motto senior year was, “I date nerds.”
8. For the longest time, I thought something would eventually happen with one of my old housemates because we had so many sparks. I don’t think it will anymore. His girlfriend was one of my good friends our last year in college. If it weren’t for her, I do sometimes wonder if things would have played out differently. He’s since become a close confidant.
7. I’ve only been high once. I spent the entire time giggling at the three people attempting to paint one girl’s room, all high, as I sat on the bed in the middle falling over with laughter.
6. I learned my harshest lessons about friendship at the camp I went to for seven years. I think it’s one of the main reasons I knew myself so well by the time I got to high school. I had already experienced heartbreak at the hands of those I believed to be my friends the summer before.
5. I won’t ever want to live in the suburbs. But I’m grateful to my mom for moving us out to New Jersey so I saw how much of a world was outside of New York. I wonder if I would have developed such wanderlust if I hadn’t been so bored with New Jersey, and would have missed out on seeing so much of the world. If I do have kids, I’ll probably move to the suburbs for that very reason.
4. GDB was the first person I ever felt like I wanted to marry and start a family with. It won’t be him. But I still want that now someday. I never thought I’d ever say that.
3. I still remember most of the guys I’ve had one night stands with. Mostly because they had some special meaning, or came at a point in my life where it was needed.
2. I don’t regret anything I’ve done up to this point in my life. But I do wish things had happened differently in some cases.
1. I truly believe everything happens for a reason. I just hope to find what my reasons are.

I lost my happy place for a while.

It was the place I turned to when I was sad and upset, and it was the place that brought me to smiles when I was feeling anything but. It used to be I could look at old text messages from GDB where he would send me pictures of himself at work, or his students, to show me how his life worked and I would smile because of how much he cared for me. Or I could think back to a spectacular day with friends where it was nonstop laughter, all the time.

I was dealt a double whammy in the last few weeks, made to feel like one of my best friends was no longer there for me, nor was GDB. I mourned them both, I ate ice cream and popcorn and chocolate chip cookies 20 seconds microwave melted. I watched movies and tv shows, staying away from anything with a traditionally happy ending. I pulled out Lost in Translation, a birthday gift from Thailand years ago, one I could never understand why he bought me. I always felt it was too slow, barely anything happened, etc. Watching it in the backdrop of my own emotions and recent heartbreaks, it had never been so clear. The movie moves slowly to capture the emotional aspect, not the physical aspect. Letting the cinematography and the scenery speak for itself, I identified with both Bill Murray’s character and Scarlett Johannson’s character, lost in their own swirls of thoughts and self-exile to Japan.

They learned to call on each other for happiness. It was an utterly romantic film without appearing so, and the non-language spoke volumes more than the actual words. I wanted that, sorely. I wanted a moment where I could be pulled out of my sadness and loneliness and anger by someone who understood how I felt, someone who had been there. And then came last night.

I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t sit and communicate with my friends without feeling like I was constantly depressing them or upsetting them or upsetting me. I didn’t want to be sad or angry or lonely. This weekend put me outside of myself and gave me visual scenery with which to distract myself. But there’s only so much you can do physically - because when your happy place is missing, no matter how beautiful your surroundings are, it won’t do a damn thing other than put on a temporary band-aid.

Finally, I got fed up with myself. If I were watching someone go through what I was going through, I’d listen. I’d care. But I’d tell them you need to move on. You need to create your own moments and your own happiness. Isn’t that what I’ve told all my friends when they’ve been dealt a rough hand? Fortunately for me, an old housemate of mine did just that. He has no idea how influential he’s been, but having been where I was and understanding me so well even though we only lived together for a year, he more or less told me to knock it off and get myself back in order.

So I contacted them. Both of them. I reached out. I told them I missed them. That I was upset with both of them. That as much as I don’t want to need them, I do. When I’m hurt or upset or angry, I can put walls up with spikes on, and both of them knew as much. With my best friend, it was telling her the stories that I used to be able to tell her, without feeling like it didn’t matter much anymore to her. We still have a lot of work to do, but she’s beginning to see that she just needs to figure out a way to get past the spikes and listen to the words I’m saying, as difficult as it may be to do sometimes. With GDB, it was talking about how much I didn’t know. And how disoriented I feel with so many big decisions coming down my pike. I didn’t tell him part of me resents him for giving me an ultimatum, but I think he knows as much anyway. He wanted to respect me, respect the fact that we both needed some space after a break-up, but it’s too hard to lose a best friend and a boyfriend in the same week.

The conversations weren’t easy. It forced me to do a lot of thinking. Avocado pointed out that after a break up, I tend to respond in not so favorable ways. I thought about it, and realized she was right. After M, I was apathetic. But after K, I was angry and I lashed out at anyone, especially her. After D, I was in denial and shock. Am I going through the stages of grief with each boyfriend? I realized GDB is the first relationship I’ve ever had where I truly and properly mourned it. Perhaps it was the amicable ending. Perhaps it was the fact that no matter what, he will still be the first person I’ve ever loved. Whatever it is, I’m handling it leaps and bounds better than I handled my previous break ups.

The night ended with both of those conversations ending within minutes of one another. Both of them reasserting that they do care about me and want the best for me. The proverbial weight on my shoulders released, and finally, the tears dissolved with it. I couldn’t find my happy place last night. So I made my own. And this morning? I woke up feeling okay, for the first time in a long time.

Ever feel like you’re drowning from the inside? Like the bath you languished in for forty minutes today somehow seeped into your pores, lavender vanilla bubbles leapfrogging its way into your lungs? Like the breaths meant to expire aren’t ready to say goodbye just yet?

A book in the hand becomes a string of typed letters on the page. The reacquaintance of warm Mrs. Fields with Mr. Haagen and his son Dazs is not nearly as fulfilling as it used to be. Watching a film in a dark movie house feels better because it’s that kind of movie you can laugh and cry at, and sometimes crying sounds like laughing anyway. Who would know the difference?

I can’t tell if it’s because of the selfishness of the first person I ever loved, or if it’s because of the selfishness of the first person I truly called my best friend. I am angry with one when I should be angry with the other, but then my mood changes, and I miss the first one terribly, and wish the other would stay away.

Perhaps warm breezes and a tropical lull calling my name might be the solution. It’s not Kokomo, but it’s damn close. The answer is not my bed where I wish I could sob, heave, feel the paroxysm of my ribcage shaking so I can more readily walk away. It’s not in the shower, an accepted place to cry where the water running from the spigot can mix with the water running from my tear ducts. More often than not, it’s the blank spreadsheet when I am suddenly reminded of how they both failed me when I needed them.

There’s a cocoon with my name on it, but I can’t find it anymore. I seem to have misplaced it somehow. Maybe it’s better, because the last time I stopped by, they were both there. Maybe the water inside my body swept them all away when it merged with my cells. I think it took all the tears I can’t cry, dissolving my salt with their lavender vanilla fragrance.

Thank you for validating me. By telling me that I do at 50% what most people do at 100%. For telling me that you’re so confident in my ability to keep up with all the work you assign me, you want to give me more responsibility - that of event planning. Which is incidentally what my dream job, current degree-in-progress, and past experience all involve. Because dammit, I am kickass at getting all the details together and putting events on like nobody’s business. I know now that I needed the job from hell to get to here, to a place of positive reinforcement and actual work.

It might be 3 or 4 AM your time, yet you’ll still talk to me for hours on end. You’re there for me when I need an escape from my own brain, you pick up the phone on a Saturday night when I decide to look for Mrs. Field’s cookies at the local supermarket and fail, and you laugh at all my quirks. Thank you for all that, and for knowing me better than I know myself. Road trip? Yes?

You’ve been around longer than most people. We might be in the same state now, but there’s still quite a distance - and that’s okay. We’ve figured out how to keep our friendship burning bright and strong, when you were ten minutes away, or an ocean away. Also, since our lives are so ridiculously interconnected, you give me hope that if you can make it work, I can make it work. Funny how we always lean on each other, eh?

When I feel particularly crazy, I think of you, and realize how tame I am in comparison. You’re my brother from another mother, and when I need a crazy night out, you’re the man to call. Now come home already!

I’m not quite sure how I got so lucky as to find you in class one day - you sat across from me and laughed at me every time my pen cap flew across the room. Distractions and all, more than a year later, you’re one of my daily confidants. It’s so refreshing to not have to explain things to someone who knows it and has been there already. Whatever did happen to dancing Barbie?

Four years ago, I wanted to kill you for your bipolar nature. Now, I want to hug you for making me laugh when I wanted to chop off my boobs because they hurt and I was in a terribly bad mood. You even offered to marry me without boobs to save others from my “sparkling personality” (as long as I was rich and there was no prenup).

Whoever you are, epic boob girl, you send a ton of traffic my way. So…thanks?

You laughed at me when I told you that I might secretly want to be a wedding planner someday. Because I love details and putting things together and making one hell of an event at the end of it all. And maybe that’s why I’m watching all these wedding shows. Or maybe, it’s just because for the first time in my life, I really want to have a wedding. Thank you for not judging me on either of those, and promising that we’re going to have kick-ass weddings, even when you’ve been feeling all over the place yourself. Also, you got me started with this crazy blog world. I both blame you and will adore you forever.

A year ago, you broke me. It sounds dramatic, but I was at the lowest point of my life. Now? After telling me you never wanted to talk to me again? We talk semi-regularly. You may have been the single-most devastating blow I’ve ever experienced, but I know I will never suffer anything as traumatic and deep as I did with you. Simply, because you kicked me when I was already down. I won’t ever be down there again. Either way, there are no hard feelings. Only hard lessons.

You drive me crazy sometimes with your puns, corny jokes, and self-deprecating humor. But you’re still the big brother I never had. And the only person who tried to save me from what became the biggest lesson I’ve ever learned.

You don’t read this, and I probably won’t ever tell you, only because you get how I feel before I get how I feel. There’s no point in you reading something you already know, and if I ever did tell you this, you probably would be mildly curious and then say, “Yeah, but I know all this. If you want me to read something, I’ll read it for you. But that’s your personal space.” It still bothers me that we’re in this place right now, where future and present collides. But when I feel low, Gwen Stefani sings “I really hope we make it, do you think we’ll make it? We’re running, keep holding my hand, so we don’t get separated,” and I think she knows what she’s talking about. Thank you for making my heart leap when I only wanted to keep it buried under miles of jagged glass. No matter what happens, I won’t live with regret.