Return of the Timeline: 2009-2013, When I Lived in Georgia, The Beginning....part II.

If you were to ask my father which series he prefers of the first two Star Treks, between The Original Series and The Next Generation, having seen all of them, he would choose TNG. If you were to ask me, having seen MOST of TNG and a good portion of The Original (I have no idea why I'm capitalizing "Original"....respect?), I would choose TNG. Kirk's...great, but Jean Luc Picard is my prince.

There are pages dedicated to this boy. 

I feel like I grew up with the sweater master himself, Wesley Crusher, but it wasn't until a year ago that I actually realized he was leading his own depression and anxiety awareness campaign (well, the actor Wil Wheaton, not Crusher, although he is the son of a doctor). I'm not going to say it wasn't pleasingly nostalgic when he popped up back on the scene. I'm just not going to say it. It was even more enjoyable to hear him talk about his own struggles with GAD, but nothing struck me more than when I heard him speak about the difference between life with and without medication. It was uncanny (and you can hear it at around 2:56 on the video that is linked to GAD up there).

To paraphrase, he describes life with depression and anxiety as life in a room that was so loud, the only way to live was to "deal with how loud it was." I heard him say it (on The Nerdist Podcast, hosted by fellow Memphian, Chris Hardwick, of Billy Hardwick and bowling and stuff), and (duh) I cried.

Deal with how loud it is.

At 29, I was exhausted. Falling asleep crying and waking up to more misery. I was in love, or I wanted to be in love...to be loved, as I loved, and I was panicking in the shower about hitting my head and being found days later because no one stopped by my house in the woods where I had no one that I knew well but a man I didn't really understand and who couldn't really understand me. I had a Master's degree, enough experience traveling and living abroad to write a novel, and I wept for myself because I couldn't bear the weight of the noise, the relentless droning of, "It is not enough. It will never be enough."

It wasn't until I had a breakdown in front my boyfriend, an honest to God weeping, no words, terrified, breakdown, that I was prompted to do something.

I realized I had hit the "proverbial" bottom.
And I stopped crying.

I called my dad, told him I needed help. Then, I drove myself to Alabama and commenced some of the oddest days of my life, the days I floated there, on the bottom, on my back looking up at the expanse of the deep well above me, leading to nothing.

My doctor told me to stop taking my birth control as this might have been a side effect (a minor side-effect....panic attacks and suicidal thoughts). I wondered if I would have to be hospitalized. I stared off into the foothills of the Appalachians. I saw nothing. I felt heavy, on the verge, tipping.

Then, because I had taken it previously, a doctor prescribed Zoloft. He should have told me to start with half a pill, but he didn't, so I spent the first twenty-four hours smiling like a weird android and trembling. I halved it.

Then, the noise stopped. I didn't notice at first; it takes a moment for it to creep up on a person. I was with my mom in Chattanooga a few days later. We walked around the city, around the "Choo-Choo," and I thought of how romantic it had all seemed in the old song. Now, rusty and surrounded by concrete, the trains just sat, quietly. Like I was doing. For the first time.

My mother asked me once what I was thinking about, and I paused, listened and replied, "nothing." And I meant it. For the first time in almost thirty years. And it felt so good.

It doesn't last. One can't just take medication and expect everything to be okay. The depressed brain is pretty convincing. There's a lot of searching: searching for the right therapist with no insurance, searching for the right psychiatrist with no insurance, searching for the medication that works that you can also afford without insurance. Then, there's the search for the way to move forward, search for the people that can be trusted with the darkness, the people that can handle it.

The Internet is for Star Trek

Discovering what I can handle. Moving forward despite how easy it would be to stand still. These are the voyages of my life. My trek through the stars of my own universe. See...I'm bringin' it back. Like a circle. Like time.

This was a moment, along my timeline, like on any timeline, a milestone. One can look behind for clues as to why it happened, but what lies ahead requires focus, an expanse stretching as far as the universe and as deep as the deep well in which I had once floated calmly, gazing up into nothing, except nothing was freedom. Nothing was peace. For the first time.

Helvellyn

I visited the lake district with Liam the summer of 2007. His America-hating Rome-loving grandmother drove us to our campsite after we spent a couple of nights at her home in Carlisle. I read the last Harry Potter book in the warm grass of her garden, and Liam took me to my first very local football match where he told me about the lyrics "panic on the streets of Carlisle" in regards to the old Smith's song. We walked home, boozy from the pints through a cow pasture as quietly and calmly as possible, but the cows still took note and slowly began to follow us to the "kissing gate" that separated them from the dirt road.

On our way to the glacial hills of the district, as I gaped at the breathtaking scenery, Liam's grandmother asked me, "is there any place you can go walking in America?" I glanced into the backseat at Liam who smiled and rolled his eyes.

"Of course," I responded, "Lots of places. It just depends on what you're looking for and how far you're willing to travel."

We camped just beyond a large pasture of sheep who kept me up at night with their less than comforting "baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahs." The tent was small, and the wind raged the first night; thus, between the bleating of the sheep, the flapping of the tent fabric, and my boyfriend's farting (I had met my match), I slept very little.

I started my period the next morning, and we headed out from the campsite to scale Helvellyn.

It's a well known range in the lake district, I would later discover at a bar in Dahlonega, GA. I had just moved to town, was dipping my toes in the bar scene, and had chosen a seat next to a gentleman with an English accent. The topic of conversation eventually got around to places I'd visited in England and finally to Helvellyn. He seemed quite impressed that I had hiked the mountain, especially via striding edge, but I, of course, downplayed my adventure by explaining, in detail, the number of tears I shed in front of all of the United Kingdom that day as I climbed the rock face to the final peak of the trail.

I had cramps for the first five hours of our six and a half hour hike. I couldn't walk them off. Despite the pain, I enjoyed the views, the sheep and goats along the way, and the companionship of Liam, who had taught me so much about taking the time to soak up the world around me...by walking.

I believe this little glacial "pond" is called Red Tarn

All the while, I knew striding edge was coming up, and though I tried to convince myself it would not be as bad as it looked from far away (it looked like people were walking a tightrope), I knew it was going to be pretty hard.

Liam described the landscape to me, how it had formed, and what makes a glacial lake. We ate fruit and prosciutto while livestock watched and waited for scraps. We passed Englishman after Englishman clad in waterproof walking gear, rosy cheeks and all.


I would explain to you how it all works, the science of it, but that has never been my forte. Instead, I'll just keep to what I know best: the emotional roller coaster on which I was forced by the breathtaking landscape and difficulty level "high" climbs.

The beginning of Striding Edge 

It's called Striding Edge because...well...."walking" it is like striding the edge of the mountain. I bent down a few times to hold on as I made my way across the narrow path leading to the final summit. I had a headache like you wouldn't believe, and I was sweating bullets and freezing, but I stood up at one point and looked out to my left to behold nothing but lakes and peaks as far as I could see. I'm not sure if I was actually looking west, but I imagined I was, and I pictured home and all my friends waving to me from the eastern coast of the United States.

I had Liam take a picture of my lovely mug at the end of Striding Edge

As soon as we finished striding the edge of the damn mountain, we faced the final ascent to the top of Helvellyn. The trail eventually ended, and there was nothing but rock, straight up, all the way to the top. So I started crying like a baby.

Through hiccups and tears, I asked Liam if he could please encourage me and not laugh at me as he climbed behind me. I also asked him to hold my butt in case I lost my footing. He was a little uncomfortable, to say the least, having to climb behind a weeping American with his hand groping her butt, but he obliged like a champ as what seemed like hoards of spry Brits climbed down past us with looks of bemused pity. I was a snotty wreck. I HAD CRAMPS. AND A HEADACHE.

Plus, nobody told me that I was going to have to do this. I hate being surprised, and I hate it even more when the surprise leaves me underprepared. I'm sure if I had known what was coming, I would have been able to bolster my emotions and my strength. I'm sure I wouldn't have made a fool of myself by crying like an infant on what most "locals" would call a "walk," but, then again, I'll never really know if that would have been the case. I had to take the trail as it came to me.

Oh the life parallels. They just keep grabbing me by the butt.

When we finally got to the top, and I, with a boost from behind, pulled myself up over the edge (it probably wasn't that drastic, but it sure felt like it at the end of five hours of walking and climbing), Liam immediately spun me around and warned me not to read the stone that memorialized the first climbers, I think because one of them had fallen to his death.

It was cold and windy, and my head still hurt like nothing I'd felt before, but I was done climbing up, it felt amazing, and I laughed almost all the way down the mountain.

We went "down tha pub" for dinner, and I rewarded myself with a roast and potatoes covered in gravy as well as a side of Yorkshire pudding, which I also covered in gravy. The tent was going to be warm with farts that night.

Walking back to the campsite, my legs wobbly from the hike and the pints, my belly warm with gravy and potatoes, I saw a lamb bounding and flopping about around its mother. I had never seen a lamb before outside of pictures, and it was precious, excited by the prospects of its own legs.

That's how I felt, all of a sudden. I was excited by the prospect of what else I could do. My legs had just helped me up and down one of the most difficult hikes in England. Sure, I cried like a baby, kicking and screaming as it is forced into the world from the warm comfort of the womb, and sometimes I still cry like that, but that's life, isn't it? Nobody can really tell you how hard it will be. Adults can shake their heads and sigh when a twenty-something says "I'm invincible," but they cannot prepare him or her for the struggles that lie ahead.

It's good to be excited by the prospects and certainly better than being terrified of them.

So, life, I see your struggles, and I raise you the strength of my own legs. Keep in mind I know nothing about poker, but I've climbed some peaks in my lifetime, and I know that I always get to laugh down the other side....and eat mashed potatoes.

Don't Sell Me a Gun or Some Facts About My Depression

Since I was a kid, I’ve had these wild fantasies wherein I get some horrible disease that makes/forces everyone to feel sorry for me, and worry about me, and...you know...give a shit. I’ve been depressed for most of my life, but no one feels sorry for you if you’re depressed. People feel sorry for you if you have cancer.

My depression comes from severe anxiety, so when I go through a period of high stress and it ends, I get really really depressed. It’s awesome. So, I’m crazy and angry for a few weeks, and then I’m so sad my whole body hurts, and I don't want to eat or drink or do anything....and then I feel better and start taking on more responsibilities. Then, I get stressed out again, and then I get depressed...it’s the circle of life. The wheeeeeel of misfortune.

I have trouble getting too close to people because of my depression. I try to be open about it, but end up sounding like an after school special, and then I actually get depressed and become mean and sad and convinced that I don’t have any friends. And I’m scared to call anyone because most people aren’t sitting around hoping their friend will call and say, “I don’t have any friends!!!” but in, like, the saddest cry voice you can think of.

I feel bad for my friends. I love my friends and I want them to know that I love them, but sometimes I can’t smile or be “happy” or stop crying or stop yelling about things or stop locking myself in my room and pretending to be dead.

I was diagnosed with “moderate major depressive disorder.” I’m moderately majorly depressed.

I’m kind of really depressed. I’m a little bit super depressed.

Why am I angry all the time? Because I’m sad and scared a lot FOR NO REASON. I’m just as confused as everyone else is. I would be fine if my life didn’t come to a halt every now and then because of my inability to separate myself from my emotions. I would be peachy.

In reality, I think I’m pretty nice….I think I am. I generally hope everyone is okay. I mostly want everyone to be happy. I’m more than grateful for what my friends do for me. But I run a lot of friends off….being sad. or angry. and then I feel bad...and I just bury myself in a hole of shame. And it’s not like I’m just saying to people “this is me! fuck you if you don’t like it!” I generally try to let people know “I’m depressed, and sometimes it’s really really hard.”

I lose friends, despite my best efforts. It is a lot to take on. My mood swings are enough to make me not want to hang out with me, but I’m always there, tagging along. I’ll go from “I’m an intelligent human being, and I make a contribution to society,” to “I’m an idiot and the worst at literally everything.” Naturally, feeling this way about myself leads to a great deal of anger. I think to myself “if I’m so great and intelligent and funny, why the hell do I suck so bad?”

I used to believe it when people pointed out my flaws as...flaws. I still believe it, but I’ve been carrying around a lot of things that were said to me out of fear and self-loathing that I took on and have continued to carry with me for over a decade. I believe, most of the time, that these people must know better than I, and that, although my primary intentions do not include bitterness or hatred, it must run rife in my blood if so many people respond to me as such. I am mostly just very confused.

I don’t like to hide from things. I don’t find that kind of behavior to be beneficial to me. I may be wrong about that. Instead of hiding from things, and ignoring them until they go away, I like to drown in them, sit on the floor and obsess over them until there is nothing left of me. I will withdraw and moan, but I don’t believe I try to crush people. I don’t believe I try to hurt people. I suppose I withdraw because I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want anyone to feel like I do.

I do not fully and completely see myself as a beautiful person. Maybe in any way. On the one hand. There’s a whole different hand on the positive end of that spectrum, it’s just a small gimp hand that doesn’t do much. Maybe I need a robot hand. A Darth Vader hand.

But sometimes I do look in the mirror and see myself and think, holy cow. I'm gorgeous. And sometimes I look back on my life, what I've done and where I've been, and I think, GOOD GRIEF you've had a life. And I have.

Sometimes I feel like there is nothing but sadness. That my future is only a constant cycle of pain and confusion. Sometimes I scare myself and the people I love. I'm scared of being alone. I'm scared of chasing everyone away. I'm scared that I'll never be able to stop this cycle. And my fear is deeper than I usually guess. It's so deep it takes over and fills my head with noise, and it makes me so angry.

And sometimes I feel like I can do anything. That I'm surrounded by love. That I'm a child of hope. I wish I could feel like THAT all the time.

But I'm sick. Ill. And that makes me forget the love. It makes me forget my life, my accomplishments, my own strength. It's real, and it's hard, and no one should have to do it alone. So I can't be silent. I can't ever be silent. Because I am not alone. No one is alone.

Roll Tide

I'm going to start off with an apology. I've tricked you into reading this post. You think you're about to read a blog about Alabama football, but you're not. OH no. This is not going to be about that.

http://bit.ly/1XQC4vT

I don't know if it was just Judy Blume, or if it was just me and Judy Blume, or if it was every damn girl in America or the world, but there was a mysticism behind the menstrual cycle when I was growing up that is hard to describe outside the context of a pre-teen novel about a clumsy girl who thinks she can increase the size of her boobs by flapping her arms around and chanting "I must, I must, I must increase my bust." And until we get it, heck, even after we get it, we paradoxically look forward to the changing of the tides just as much as we dread them.

I had already read Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret by the time we were invited to the "mother-daughter" night in fifth grade (1990?) where they showed a movie about some girls camping in their back yard and getting their periods. Maybe just one of them got it, but the mom made uterine shaped pancakes to help ease the minds of the confused pre-teens while daddy ran to the store for sanitary napkins. For SANITARY NAPKINS.

They gave us each an Always pad wrapped in a purple wrapper with pink writing on it. I treasured that pad, kept it close to my heart and probably lit a candle and prayed to the goddesses that I didn't recognize yet to please send me the knowledge that only came with the shedding of the uterine lining. I loved it until the day I started my period and wore it to the roller skating rink.

This also happened in 1992. 

It was the glorious summer of 1992. Kurt Cobain was still alive, Terminator 2: Judgement Day was on HBO and my best friend had HBO...and a pool. Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch covered the Velvet Underground. Amy Grant, former Christian pop artist and former idol of six year old me, had broken into the pop scene....remember? Come on?! Amy Grant you guys. Remember?

And roller skating was still awesome. A bunch of kids jamming themselves into a dimly lit room with carpet from the 1970s, donning roller skates with mold in them...from the 1970s...and flinging themselves around curves to Color Me Badd and Guns N' Roses, what's not to love? It was acceptable to laugh at a boy who called himself "BJ," and to respond with "I don't have a name" when asked in those dark corners of that round room.

But for me, wearing that stupid Always pad from 5th grade was a sentence I liken only to death. After one day at the rink, I entreated my mother, "there HAS to be a better way." There was no way I was going to be able to create the roller skating opus I had been preparing to Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart" wearing a damn diaper. So I met tampons, and tampons met me, and the rest is history.

Back then it wasn't something that was talked about that much (unless you were a girl, but we're all in the same Coven so that's no surprise), and it seems like that is changing. It was considered uncouth and improper. It still is really, and I'm sure more than one of you is going to have a hissy fit and stop reading my blog because of this, and that's fine.

Someone asked a friend of mine for a feminine hygiene product for her daughter a few years ago. My friend offered her a tampon and the woman said, "Oh no. She's a virgin," with whispered emphasis on the "virgin." My friend is polite, so she said nothing, but I probably would have said, without blinking, "Oh, that's fine, this is a tampon, not a penis."

Did you know that it was ILLEGAL to talk to young women about their bodies at the beginning of the twentieth century? Margaret Sanger, founder of planned parenthood, went to jail for publishing a pamphlet she called "The Woman Rebel" that outlined the menstrual cycle for young women, explained what it was. She was breaking the law to teach women about their own bodies, and she had to break to the law. She HAD to.

I think about what I know now about my menstrual cycle, how much information about hormone cycles and management is available for free via the internet. I can literally take control of my life by understanding and respecting my body and its processes. I no longer have to be a prisoner to the changing of the tides, none of us do, and none of us were, secretly...respectfully.

I met a young girl from Mexico during my first few months here in Chicago. She was gorgeous and delighted to be alive. I remember talking to her at a bar one day where she would sit because the bartender was the man she was going to be dating in the coming months. We were chatting about our periods and he overheard and remarked, "ew," to which she responded, "If blood came out of your penis once a month, you would NEVER stop talking about it," and that was the end of that...because she was right.

Yes, it's a long way to the bottom there, dear. 

If men bled from their genitals once a month, we would never hear the end of it. Luckily for them, they actually go through a full hormone cycle every twenty-four hours. The same drawn out, gnashing of teeth, death to the infidels hormone cycle women go through every 21-29 days. I bet most of ya didn't know that. We don't call it a hormone cycle with them, though. The levels of testosterone and estrogen in their bodies just fluctuates throughout the day, rather than the estrogen slow climb up the roller coaster and then terrifying free fall to the bottom.

The best part about understanding your body? The more you know, the less room you have to feel ashamed. Remember when having a period was a shameful thing? Remember? Anyone read the bible? Anyone?

Well, maybe it's just me. I'm not ashamed of my period. I respect it like the beast it is. She's the animal part of me, the part unaffected by emotions. The part that gets all fluttery when a guy who actually works out and watches what he eats jogs by and I get a wiff of that glorious...man...

I'm sorry. What I'm trying to say is, I no longer ask, "Are you there God? It's me, Margaret," in reference to my monthlies. Instead I just say, "Hey, sorry I kicked the door in whilst screaming about losing my keys, my period's about a week away. I'll pay for it. Love you!"

But the best advice I've seen is from Margaret Sanger in the first volume of her pamphlet, "The Woman Rebel":

A Woman's Duty: To look the whole world in the face with a go-to-hell look in the eyes; to have an ideal; to speak and act in defiance of convention.

Roll Tide.

Woman and Society: A One-Sided Dialogue.

Are you sad? You don't have to be sad! You can go shopping, drown yourself in home goods and fall fashions, and you'll be right as rain. 

http://bit.ly/1GJXyGq

Have you been sad for a long time? You probably need a boyfriend! Go to this bar, get this app, join this group, give money to this church! You will find a boyfriend!

How are you and your boyfriend? Good? If you don't get married, you might not be good for much longer! You should get married! Luckily, there is lots of stuff you can buy, and you can get your friends to buy you stuff too!

http://bit.ly/1PRrvXU

Are you sad? Why are you still sad? Do you have the best cable package? I mean, can you watch Game of Thrones when you want? Then there is no reason you should be sad. I mean...SPOTIFY exists. It may not be the 90s any more, but at least you have Spotify.

Why are you locking yourself in your room and crying like that? You shut the door and sit in the dark crying, sometimes moaning...like a creepy ghost. That's not good for you. You should stop doing that. Eat some ice cream...or some Lucky Charms! It's impossible to be unhappy when doing one or both of those things. In fact, go to the grocery store and get whatever you want to eat. It doesn't matter how unhealthy it is, it has to be better than weeping uncontrollably.

http://bit.ly/1kbfb7M

Why are you so angry? It's hard to tell who you are sometimes...like you're Bruce Banner one day and then you're the Hulk the next day. You should exercise more. Exercising is the best and purest thing you can do. Just go for a run...but make sure you wear these shoes. You don't want to get injured. I mean, a doctor's bill is going to be more than these shoes. Get these shoes...and these workout clothes. These pants really accent your legs, and that color on you is so sexy. WAIT! You should join this gym...maybe you'll meet someone...you know....in case you haven't "met someone" yet. Plus, if you're in shape, someone will definitely want you to have his kids, and if you don't have kids...well....I don't know what you're doing with your life.

http://bit.ly/1Wi5gi9

Why do you think you haven't met anyone? Do you think it's because you're really intense? I mean...you're really intense. Remember? Bruce Banner? The Hulk? You have to hide that stuff. You probably intimidate guys. Maybe don't let anyone know how smart you are...just...do your best not to scare them. That's the best way to find someone with which to spend the rest of your life. Just, don't be your full self. Duh.

You seriously need to work on your anger issues. I just don't get it. You're attractive, smart, and talented. You have everything. Why are you so angry? Why are you so sad? Why do you keep having panic attacks? Why can't you just get over it? Just don't be like that.

Uh.....There's Way More than Two Roads in this Wood

Yes. I am fickle. I promise you love and devotion, and here it is, a full year and a few days since I've even looked at you. How do I expect anyone to ever trust me? As I've learned over the past year, I trust most just as far as I trust myself, which is not much further than I can throw myself, which, and I just tried this outside, isn't too far.

I understand why you're afraid of the cold now, friends. I don't blame you. I never knew what winter was until 2014, and 2015 confirmed my suspicions. I am a glutton for punishment. I've never really seen things from a Russian's perspective until now, and I can't wait to relive Chekhov's classics in their true light as riotous comedies. 

Family, I am a depressed person, but I am not lost. I just don't trust myself, and I really need to be able to do that in order to do, well, anything else.

So, I dove deep into the darkest parts of my own ocean. I stared into the abyss. I cried a WHOLE lot. Sometimes openly, like a big baby. But I was never lost. 

However, I did more than cry while I was staring deep into the inevitability of my own obsolescence (yeah. we're DOING this). 

I listened. I watched. I noted. I tried. And I failed 99% of the time.

I went to Target the other day for Oreo's and left with an area rug and a poster of Wonder Woman. The rug was marked down from $99 to $29, so, OF COURSE, and who cares how much the poster cost, look at it:

                                                 I digress.

The tiny one percent of the time I didn't fail was when I pictured myself as Wonder Woman in that poster, in her stance, fists clenched, legs apart, no possibility of a thigh gap, (because I've got linebacker thighs, I'll crush you) and I kept going.  

I've been so angry for so very long. Why did no one tell me there was someone like me that I could look up to? Why did everyone around me tell me to be quiet, that the best women were the meek women, that behind every good man was a good woman? And why were they all so surprised when I finally lost it? Why did no one tell me that I could be my own hero, and not in that tweaked out Matthew McConaughey I'm my own hero kind of way?

I learned to research in grad school, to read and re-read and to underline in the library books in pencil, and to remember to recheck them out when they were due, once every three months...or was it six...Dammit!

I also learned the hardest part of it all: starting to write it down.

So here we go...again.

But don't worry. Life has been teaching me how to handle it. Nature, in her own violent beauty, is reminding me how hard I must work and how capable I am of doing that work. I learned a great many lessons in the woods.

I find myself in the woods sometimes, but in my head. I summon my Wonder Woman strength, shut out all the sounds around me, and remember how faithful they are, year round. How much I learned of life and death from the micro-movements of the forest floors. How free we were, Linus and I, and how free we still are. How freedom is relative. How peace is a state of mind. How I have all the answers right here.

And how I never would have found it without the people who love me.

Most people don't know the crushing reality of Robert Frost's beloved "The Road Not Taken," that the road itself made no difference at all. Reality dictates that we make a choice, one way or the other.

         And both that morning equally lay
         In leaves no step had trodden black.
         Oh, I kept the first for another day!
         Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
         I doubted if I should ever come back.

We only ever get one chance to be alive, and one way of living is no better or worse than the other. The points don't matter. In fact, and tell everyone you know what I'm about to say...............................no one is keeping score.

Remember the people that love you. Take them with you everywhere you go. They are the most important parts of your life.

You can go any way you want; you will learn how to get through it as you move forward.

So go.

I'll be here when the weight isn't too much for me, talking about myself...like a lunatic, summoning the strength of Diana.

Acid-ity

There comes a time in every child's life that she must experience the world through her own eyes rather than the eyes of those that came before.

No. I'm not talking about history, or adulthood, or just the broader sense of life experience. I'm talking about something much more/less significant. I'm talking about psychedelic drugs, more specifically, ACID.

It might help if you read this post whilst listening to this song:

I am listening to it while I write this post. 

Let me preface this (in the middle) by saying that I do not advocate the irresponsible use of drugs. I don't. Drugs are a HUGE responsibility. NEVER take drugs for shits and giggles. NEVER. 

I decided I wanted to try Acid after seeing a fantastic episode of Mad Men wherein Roger Sterling (my FAVORITE character) takes Acid with his soon to be estranged young wife along with a bunch of other wealthy adults during a time when the medical industry was testing the effects of LSD. I'd been toying with the idea for a while, and I was living close to some similarly toying friends that I considered and still consider to be my intellectual equals. We MADE PLANS that required us to wait a good few months before actually taking the drug. We talked to professional drug takers (or whatever you want to call them) who gave us excellent advice on how to spend the day without crashing into a pile of misery at the end of it (because that's what happens when you take drugs....you feel fantastic and then you crash into a pile of painful misery). 

If the music has ended, you can always restart it. ;)

The day we had planned was upon us. It was in June in Atlanta, and the weather forecasters were calling for an incredibly hot day, over 100 in the shade. Everyone was advised to stay inside. But we didn't want to. We went to a park on a creek, brought water, juice, fruit and trail mix, and spread out. 

From the time one "drops" acid, it takes about an hour or so to feel any of the effects. We were coming out of a hike through the dense woods when I started to "come up" as they say. I found a rock in the shade where I could soak my feet in the water of the creek and allowed the waves of my gradual loss of control to crash over me. 

It mostly just felt like my breathing had slowed down along with my mind. I remember looking up and seeing my friend Matt, who had mentioned putting on some sunblock before anything happened, standing in the creek up to his knees, and confusedly rubbing thick, cakey circles of old sunblock around in his chest hair. 

"There's something wrong with this lotion."

I just laughed. 

I won't go into all the details. I will say that I found myself at one point, sitting on a rock in the middle of the creek, the current rushing over my shoulders as I tossed my head back and laughed at the sky. I laughed and laughed until I wept, and then I wept until I laughed again. I was experiencing the stereotypical Acid trip. I also spent a long time with one of these guys:

thinking, "this guy totally gets it." What? Oh, you know, the basic stuff: Life is fleeting. We're all plummeting towards death, and the more we fear it, the faster it comes. Thus, there's no good place for fear in our lives. There's a place for careful consideration, but life altering fear, NO. 

The truth is, I didn't need to take acid to figure that out. I knew it. What's the one reason you aren't doing exactly what you want to do RIGHT NOW? And you can't say "money," because you know how to make money. The answer is fear. You might be afraid that you won't succeed, afraid that you will succeed, afraid you'll be alone forever, afraid you'll end up on the streets, crazy and homeless (that's not how you become homeless. look at homeless people. most of them need a good doctor and some kind of medication for mental disorders OR help with addiction [BE CAREFUL WITH DRUGS]). 

Every reason that you might be able to give for not living the life you always imagined you could live can be traced back to FEAR. 

I was a trusting kid. My parent's didn't have to scare me into submission too often (I don't think). When a lot of my friends were sneaking out because their parents were strict, I was hanging out at home with my parents watching Star Trek TNG or listening to music and writing in my angst-y teen journal. My parents weren't strict. I got to go out when I made plans, and I didn't go out when I didn't. I trusted their authority and guidance, some might say innocently, because they didn't try to scare me into obeying them. I didn't try to rush into adulthood. I let it come upon me organically. So, for that, I think they knocked it out of the park, even if they don't agree with me. I mean...I am writing a blog about dropping acid. 

So do this: return to freaking innocence. Just laugh if you want. Cry if you want. And don't care what other people say. You're the only one that knows EXACTLY what you need. And if you aren't sure...FIGURE IT OUT, and then give it to yourself. 

The only difference between figuring that out with or without acid is the pure moods style music in your head...and the visuals. CRAZY VISUALS. 

OH. AND THIS:

When The Crying Stops

So...it's been three days since I last cried. I bet you're wondering, "when you're not crying, what on EARTH do you do with your time?!" And the truth is, nothing much really. I take a while to get out of bed. I take a while to decide what to eat. I take a while to get dressed. I take a while to decide to do the next thing. Everything moves in slow motion, rather than being at a complete standstill. I sometimes wonder if I've found some way to suppress my true feelings and fool myself into being somewhat content. I don't know. I'm not destitute, by any means. I see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I'm confident that it will continue to get bigger, the closer I get to it.

I am haunted by the past...still. I have these moments of terrible sadness. Not violent, or dramatic, just very quiet, slow sadness. I still wish he would change his mind, and try to find a way back into my life, but I do not expect it...in any way. Life is rarely ever magical unless it's because of something I've worked for...and then it's not really magical...is it? I feel awkward in many social situations. I want to talk about it all the time, and then sometimes I never want to talk about it again. Today in the middle of my first class (which I TOTALLY improvised because I planned for the wrong class)...I wanted to talk all about it. It reminded me of how open I was with all my students in the fall about my future plans and my "boyfriend" and how I was so excited. They were excited for me. Luckily, the part of my brain that is managing to move forward through the mess held me back from teaching a terrible lesson about heartbreak, rather than writing in English.

I still believe, after everything...and it certainly wasn't as much as it could have been...in love. I know it is out there...probably in the very distant future...but it is out there again...waiting for me to be completely unprepared for it. It is also here...with me...beside me...and all around me. So...

Relativity

So, I made it through a day without crying. Wednesday, 28 May 2008: I did not cry. The Events leading up to this day are as follows: Tuesday morning, I got up, lifted weights with some cheery girl on some DVD my mom has and then made myself a bowl of my favorite food: beans. I sat on the couch watching court television, eating my beans and drinking Dr. Pepper...doing fine. When I am texting people, and I don't receive answers in a manner that I deem timely (which...in my twisted reality at present...means like, two minutes), I get very sad. I start to think that maybe no one likes me and wants to meaninglessly banter with me via text messaging (I have unlimited text messaging on my phone plan). I was spooning beans into my mouth and watching this poor kid in a wheelchair argue about how it wasn't fair that he had to come all the way into the city to meet this guy for a job interview when the guy wasn't even taking it seriously. The judge ruled on the side of the jerk that didn't show up for the interview, and I cried my eyes out for the poor kid in the wheelchair. It was...almost...comical. I couldn't finish my food.

Then texting commenced, and the minutes flew by until it was time for me to go to trivia at the P and H. It was good to see people, and to share pitcher after pitcher of cheap beer. I even had some delicious Jalapeño poppers. I also got to share my knowledge of terrible 90s music as well as my extensive knowledge of television shows. If not for the tie-breaker question of "pick a number between 1 and 200" (WTF) we would have come into money. It was a robbing of sorts. My favorite moment...the question was something about who had a hit in some year in the 90s with 'That's the Way Love Goes.' Zack immediately began to sing the chorus and I chimed in with the spoken bit...and punctuated it with 'Janet Jackson,' which was right...and oh so wrong that Zack and I both not only know the artist but can perform the song. Oh FM 100...you have taught me well.

I stayed at the P and H talking with Jeff and his wife Michelle (Mechelle?) until about three in the morning...when Diana and I went to Krystal to indulge in some Krystal Chiks...because they're so good for you.

My day without tears was interesting. I ate at Fino's with Diana and we put in our applications for this apartment we are interested in. Then I met Tess and her two lovely daughters at the zoo. It was surprisingly lovely outside (cool and cloudy), but Saylah (?) still insisted that I needed to wear sandals. She kept grabbing my hand to drag me forward and warn me, 'wait til you see the polar bears!' Tess is infinitely patient with two girls. At one point Saylah ran up to her, grabbed her hands and said, 'I am so in love with Otters,' despite the fact that we were watching the sea lions.

By close to the end of the day I had bitterly reminded a young girl that is newly in love, that she is probably not in love and that she needs to wait and see and sat in grim silence for a time...and Tess still told me I was doing really well. She bought my Mango sorbet...for which I was grateful.

I ran into Chris and April at Target and we talked for a good long time about what have you...making each other laugh. It was nice. Then I bought "The Audacity of Hope" and a half gallon of Edy's Rocky Road ice cream. I went home...read...ate ice cream...and wanted to cry. Being in this place...it looks normal I suppose...but it doesn't really feel that way. I always feel kind of naked...and sore. My whole body feels sore. Sometimes...I think crying relieves a bit of that pain. But sometimes...there is not a catalyst...and I don't cry. I suppose thinking that it would be a good day when I didn't cry was a bit naive. I mean...I've had good days when I did cry...and not to say it wasn't a good day...because it was...but in and out, and up and down, I'm still in this naked painful place...and I suppose a good day is really just relative.

I'm Sorry

So...today was day 25 of being broken up with him, day 11 of actually being separated from him. I'm doing OKAY. I decided that I would do something nice for myself today and go out and buy some underwear that I really like...but I went to like....four different places, and no one had the exact type of underwear that I was looking for...so I didn't get any...because I'm sick of buying underwear that I hate because I can't find what I like. Thus...I did nothing for myself today. I cried a little, and thought...man...it's going to be a really good day when I get through it without crying.

I also got myself out of my bed, after my failed underwear adventure, and made it over to Grace's for a pre-memorial day cookout. I couldn't believe my ability to actually have conversations with people without breaking down and crying to them about how sad I am. I only broke once...technically. And let me just say this...I'm SORRY that I'm not happy enough to be cheerleader pumped about other people's fantastic relationship successes. I have to convince myself to stop thinking about the guy that broke up with me and how much I want him back...and I have to convince myself that I need to start coming to terms with the fact that I will never be able to have him back. This is the difficult journey in my head and heart. And so...for those of you that are experiencing relationship bliss...I am sorry...deep in the recesses of my heart, I am incredibly happy for you...there is a tiny version of me locked away somewhere behind all this baggage that is doing a little cheerleader toe touch for you..and flicking her pig tails. Which are cute. But the me outside, is stuck in a block of muck...trying to keep from crying at random times because the person she put stock in...gave up and sold out. Don't feel sorry for me. There is nothing to be sorry for...just understand my lack of enthusiasm...and take the minute expressions of happiness that I give as HUGE...perhaps even a high five...up high AND down low.

Puffy Eyes

So...I thought I was doin real good. I was moving along, planning my next steps...carefully, mind you...one day at a time. And then..BAM..I cried for about two hours last night. I also used about 700 tissues. I forgot how magnificently lame heartbreak can be at times. How terribly uncompromising it can be. I forgot how quickly every ounce of strength and self assurance can drain from my conscience. For two to three hours last night, all I wanted, despite my better judgement, was to have things back the way they were. I wanted to be in England, wearing my coat and scarf and gloves, holding his hand and walking through park after park after park. I wanted to keep dreaming about where we would live in the future...what borough we would choose, and I wanted to imagine that someday...we might have children. I was sweaty from the Memphis heat, exhausted from the Memphis humidity/allergens, and angry from the driving.

I have always thought that if I loved passionately, despite my shortcomings, I would be loved in return. If I was willing to put the time, effort, and devotion into a relationship, I would be met with the same time, effort, and devotion. I have never understood, even though I have experienced it before, the concept of being rejected by someone I spent so much time loving. In the throws of my terrible sobbing, I often feel a bit too melodramatic...which makes me cry even more. It's horrific to come face to face with your weaknesses...and to succumb.

Despite what I told Diana last night, I do not buy into the sadness. It seems easier sometimes to let it become a part of you...a part of your shtick...but it isn't all that fun. Also...I look pretty horrendous this morning. I'm not sure how often that's going to go over well with me.

I am ready to not be stuffy any more. I am ready to be able to talk like myself...without this darn frog in my throat. Despite not being wild about the idea of, you know, getting a job and having a life...I suppose I am ready to inch my way into that as well.

Snippets

I don't know if they have thunderstorms in England...I certainly haven't experienced one, and I've spent quite a bit of time there. I mean, it rains incessantly, but there's not really any thunder. Today, in Memphis, I woke up to a thunderstorm. It was dark and cool in my room (the perfect temperature), and the thunder was rumbling, a good bit away from my window. That is possibly one of the best things ever: waking up to a thunderstorm...when you can stay in bed and enjoy it. I snuggled up under the covers and breathed deep, trying to picture it far far away from ever being able to harm me, little me, safe in my bed. It rained like hell for a while, and then cleared up, but then, if you live here, you already know this.

Vanessa, I watched one of the Judge shows today...Judge Hatchett. She kept yelling at this guy to stop 'runnin' to [his] mamma!" I learned a great deal about responsibility. I also tried to wax my legs while watching...but the wax I was using was old and ineffective, and therefore...my legs are still...sparatically hairy...because of the inconsistency of the epilady. Stupid epilady.

Here is an article about me: Grammar, but only when I'm not writing my blog...I have my own brand of grammar when blogging.
In any case...it's from one of my favorite blogs, and it is an hilarious slap in the face.

I only cried twice today...they were little snippets of cries even...not full on crying, and I was with Diana...and she timed them...so it was good. I cried over Mexican food...and then made a little joke about it...so...it was one of those laughter through tears things. Surreal. Everything is surreal these days. I said I felt empty...but Diana told me that wasn't the case. I don't know if I'm full...yet...but I must not be empty.

Angry Sad

I've been spiraling into a gigantic hole of being sick since I stepped off the plane in Atlanta. That tickle in my throat started on Thursday morning, and has been teasing me ever since. I thought I'd stand up to it by going out Saturday night after loads of rest...but I did not triumph in the end. All day Sunday was spent coming to terms with the fact that I was getting sick, and there wasn't anything I could do about it but shut up and sit down. And by 'shut up' I actually mean that I cannot speak. I do not have a voice.

You know why this sucks? I mean, generally being sick sucks...but I've been stuck in this position of not being able to go forward for the past three weeks now. I've been crying for three weeks. I've cried a lot less recently, but I've still been crying for three weeks. Being sick does not make me more hopeful about the future. Being sick makes me miserable. I feel like I'm being kicked while I'm down.

I cried last night, uncontrollably...again. I want my life back, for God's sake. I mean...I gave it up for another...and I just want it back, but I can't just get it back. I have to rebuild it. I call these people that let me down the idiots...but maybe I'm the actual idiot. I mean...they don't give anything away, and I give it all away...so when things end...they've got nothing to rebuild, and I've got everything to rebuild. I don't have a job. I don't have my own place. I don't have my health. I want control of my life back. And really...I just want someone to actually fucking love me. I'm sick of being blind to the fact that I'm with someone that is afraid of taking it to the next level...afraid of taking a step out into the great unknown. Afraid of letting it be what it could be. Am I too much of an idealist? Is it too much to believe that some things are worth working for...some things are worth sacrificing for. When will I be worth sacrificing for? Or...am I wrong about all that?

In these times...when I finally stop crying...I don't feel better. The cries aren't those cries where it's really all you needed...they're just cries...and when they're over...I'm still in the same place. I stop crying because, if I didn't, I never would...and I would drown in my misery. I stop crying because some day it will get better. I was told by someone recently that I would be surprised at how quickly I would begin to feel better. I was told this by someone who has never actually suffered any real pain. Those that understand real...actual pain...tell me what I hate to hear, and what I know is true...that I have to be here. That it may seem like it's going to last forever...but it WILL end...and I WILL get through it. And I won't think to myself, in the end, "gee...I'm so surprised at how quick that happened." I imagine, and I know, that I'll be exhausted. That I'll be free...but I'll be exhausted from the journey. I'll be sore from the strain and bruised from the falls...What I KNOW that this person doesn't know...is that...when it ends...I'll be different. I'll be stronger. I'll be better. It doesn't happen fast. It never happens fast, but it happens. Trusting is the hardest part.