I had never heard of such a thing until this semester. 6:20 AM...
I wake up at 5:00 AM, with lots of coaxing and a little pushing, and am out the door by 5:30. And now, here I sit in the hallway of a campus building, freezing, bundled in three layers, waiting for the teacher to arrive and unlock the door.
My eyelids still feel heavy, even after that drive. In fact, I "woke up" as I was passing the first exit past the exit I normally take to get to campus. Coffee sounds amazing right now. But so does crawling back in bed and going to sleep. I am not a morning person. I am hateful, grumpy, whiny, and mad at the world for being asleep while I am waking up and miserable.
I really think I can turn my satchel on its side, and it will make a terrific pillow.
Hallway sleeping, here I come.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Dust Bowl
"Wind's pickin' up again."
"I'm standing right here beside you, ain't I? Don't I know it is by myself? Law."
"Alright, alright, calm yourself. Ain't nothin' to get worked up over, I was just sayin'."
"Well, keep your sayin's to yourself. I get tired of your lip."
They fell into a weighty silence. Jim tipped his hat low, bending in the chair to hit the spittoon just right of his foot. He wanted to point out that with the wind gaining in strength, they ought to go gather up the horses, cows, and chickens into the barn and get the doors closed, a dust storm could happen in a matter of seconds in this little hollow. But with Amos, any suggestion was taken as a threat against his intelligence. So Jim, patient soul that he was, kept his lips tight (except for the occasional spit) and waited for instructions from his brother.
Leaning up against the wall, Amos stared out over the plains. They're parents had left the farm thirty years back, and both boys worked so hard at running and maintaining it, they completely forgot about the other parts of life. Now, nearing 50, and Jim easing on up to 45, he regretted every missed opportunity in his past. Janie Evans was his sweetheart at age 22. And he stopped taking her to the barn dances and fairs many years back. He had more important things to attend to, with the passing of his folks and a younger brother and a baby sister to watch. The sickly cows, pulling and tugging at sparse blades of grass, their milk far from frothy and plentiful, made the pain in his stomach twitch and worsen.
"Maggie's out back feeding the chickens. Run and tell her to get 'em in the coop, you know she won't figure it out for herself. Sick little girl. Then get back over here and help me with the bigger stock." He pushed off from the doorway as Jim headed through the old plain wooden house.
Slick, the dappled sire of the bunch, fathering more foals than believable, lumbered over and nudged Amos under the arm. Slick was born from Angel, the first horse Amos' father had ever owned. He was special, the one thing that made a profit on the farm, with his colts coming every six months out of one of the four mares, and the one thing that Amos found as a comfort. He rubbed the stallion's black diamond on his forehead, pushing the stringy hair away.
"Get on in the barn, Slick. I got your women comin' in after ya." The massive horse lumbered in, slowly, deliberately. He knew what was coming.
Jim came running from around the back of the house in a huff, out of breath and red in the face.
"Amos! Amos! Maggie ain't back there. I checked all over the back and into the little thicket and in the house. I can't find her. And the wind is pickin' up and you know her. She can't make it home in a dust storm."
Maggie had been born touched. She developed slowly, then got to a certain age and stopped developing altogether. She never mentally passed the age of 1o to Amos, though her body was now in the late 30's.
"We have to find her Amos, the animals can wait. You know we can't leave her out there alone. She'll die."
Amos felt a moment of guilt staring at his brother. Jim was sincerely worried about Maggie's well being. The only thing Amos felt was anger. Her death would mean his sacrifice would be for nothing. Somewhere along the line, he had forgotten the important things in life. And for this, he envied Jim.
"Saddle up Slick and the red mare. We'll ride out until we find her."
"I'm standing right here beside you, ain't I? Don't I know it is by myself? Law."
"Alright, alright, calm yourself. Ain't nothin' to get worked up over, I was just sayin'."
"Well, keep your sayin's to yourself. I get tired of your lip."
They fell into a weighty silence. Jim tipped his hat low, bending in the chair to hit the spittoon just right of his foot. He wanted to point out that with the wind gaining in strength, they ought to go gather up the horses, cows, and chickens into the barn and get the doors closed, a dust storm could happen in a matter of seconds in this little hollow. But with Amos, any suggestion was taken as a threat against his intelligence. So Jim, patient soul that he was, kept his lips tight (except for the occasional spit) and waited for instructions from his brother.
Leaning up against the wall, Amos stared out over the plains. They're parents had left the farm thirty years back, and both boys worked so hard at running and maintaining it, they completely forgot about the other parts of life. Now, nearing 50, and Jim easing on up to 45, he regretted every missed opportunity in his past. Janie Evans was his sweetheart at age 22. And he stopped taking her to the barn dances and fairs many years back. He had more important things to attend to, with the passing of his folks and a younger brother and a baby sister to watch. The sickly cows, pulling and tugging at sparse blades of grass, their milk far from frothy and plentiful, made the pain in his stomach twitch and worsen.
"Maggie's out back feeding the chickens. Run and tell her to get 'em in the coop, you know she won't figure it out for herself. Sick little girl. Then get back over here and help me with the bigger stock." He pushed off from the doorway as Jim headed through the old plain wooden house.
Slick, the dappled sire of the bunch, fathering more foals than believable, lumbered over and nudged Amos under the arm. Slick was born from Angel, the first horse Amos' father had ever owned. He was special, the one thing that made a profit on the farm, with his colts coming every six months out of one of the four mares, and the one thing that Amos found as a comfort. He rubbed the stallion's black diamond on his forehead, pushing the stringy hair away.
"Get on in the barn, Slick. I got your women comin' in after ya." The massive horse lumbered in, slowly, deliberately. He knew what was coming.
Jim came running from around the back of the house in a huff, out of breath and red in the face.
"Amos! Amos! Maggie ain't back there. I checked all over the back and into the little thicket and in the house. I can't find her. And the wind is pickin' up and you know her. She can't make it home in a dust storm."
Maggie had been born touched. She developed slowly, then got to a certain age and stopped developing altogether. She never mentally passed the age of 1o to Amos, though her body was now in the late 30's.
"We have to find her Amos, the animals can wait. You know we can't leave her out there alone. She'll die."
Amos felt a moment of guilt staring at his brother. Jim was sincerely worried about Maggie's well being. The only thing Amos felt was anger. Her death would mean his sacrifice would be for nothing. Somewhere along the line, he had forgotten the important things in life. And for this, he envied Jim.
"Saddle up Slick and the red mare. We'll ride out until we find her."
Insomnia... Again
Anxiety gets me. It really does. I can feel my heart racing and panicking wildly in my chest, although there is no sane or rational reason for it. I have a snoring softly warm body beside me even, one leg thrown over mine, usually a comfort, and still I can not come down from this high.
Tomorrow is a big day; maybe that is the cause of this sudden outbreak. I'm trying to squeeze in four classes in one day, two days a week. So on Monday and Wednesday I am on campus for a whopping total of ten hours. It's daunting, to say the least, and I can feel the dread of the exertion building inside.
I get so tired of myself sometimes. Tired of not being able to handle things, tired of panicking, tired of feeling uncomfortable in my own skin, tired of the mania that means I won't sleep, tired of the following depression that leaves me exhausted and almost confined to the bed. I'm afraid of pushing away the one person I need, and I feel sorry that he has to deal with my problems. He deserves better than that.
I go to speak to the doctor again this week. Another check up, another measuring, another endless barrage of questions about my emotions and actions and appetite and feelings. I am definitely not in the mood to deal with it. Medications help, but they don't solve everything. I want a quick fix, or to at least know what if feels like to function like a normal person with no chemical imbalance.
I dwell on the negative, see how I did it? That is another freakin' bad habit of mine. I really need to just get over myself. I'm in a warm bed, a wonderful man beside me who loves me, and a family that supports me and is behind me 100%.
Everything will be alright...
Tomorrow is a big day; maybe that is the cause of this sudden outbreak. I'm trying to squeeze in four classes in one day, two days a week. So on Monday and Wednesday I am on campus for a whopping total of ten hours. It's daunting, to say the least, and I can feel the dread of the exertion building inside.
I get so tired of myself sometimes. Tired of not being able to handle things, tired of panicking, tired of feeling uncomfortable in my own skin, tired of the mania that means I won't sleep, tired of the following depression that leaves me exhausted and almost confined to the bed. I'm afraid of pushing away the one person I need, and I feel sorry that he has to deal with my problems. He deserves better than that.
I go to speak to the doctor again this week. Another check up, another measuring, another endless barrage of questions about my emotions and actions and appetite and feelings. I am definitely not in the mood to deal with it. Medications help, but they don't solve everything. I want a quick fix, or to at least know what if feels like to function like a normal person with no chemical imbalance.
I dwell on the negative, see how I did it? That is another freakin' bad habit of mine. I really need to just get over myself. I'm in a warm bed, a wonderful man beside me who loves me, and a family that supports me and is behind me 100%.
Everything will be alright...
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Help Me Push Thru
If you've read this blog a few times, you'll know I'm bulimic. I fight with it every day, the body image, my relationship with food. Some days are better than others. Some days kick me in the ass.
I try to look at it from an outsider's perspective. How crazy and disturbed would someone have to be to force themselves to vomit up what they eat to stay alive? Yes, a binge is a little more than necessary to sustain normal life, but I have not binged in over a year. But I still purged.
It has been around two or three months since I last purged. And before that, it was not regular. I hope I can keep this up, but it gets so hard sometimes I cannot stand it, and I feel I am falling. I have gained weight, which, surprise surprise, you will do when you are eating and not vomiting after meals.
I have gained so much weight, that it pushes me over the edge of my body image. Its almost as if someone has put me into a fat suit and broken the zipper off, and I can't get out. That is the panic and anxiety I have over the situation.
Last night was bad. I did good throughout the day. If I eat small amounts and still feel hungry, I can push through. But at dinner we grilled out. I ate my vegan burger, along with some macaroni and cheese. I felt full. Stuffed. Just normally so, but literally my arms, legs, stomach, ass, and neck began to swell in my mind. I was becoming more and more unattractive by the minute.
As much as I can call on my rational mind to talk to the other side of my brain, it doesn't work. Irrationality and insanity win out in my case every time.
I did not purge.
And I suppose that is some small victory.
But I want the day to come when I eat a meal, and don't feel the immediate nausea and repulsion that helped me purge in the past.
I don't think it's coming.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Emotional
It hurt.
The blade twisted deeper and deeper, the red and black spurting and gushing over the hilt and the the hand grasping it tightly.
The mental image healed her anger. A simple sort of release, a safe sort of release. Otherwise she might act on the bubbling bile brewing inside her mind and heart.
It wasn't always there. There were times of serenity and calm. Times when she could breathe easy and feel nothing. Then it would come, searing out of nothing, straight into her gut, and it refused to be held in.
The first time it actually scared her, the life of a rabbit ended. A pet. Six years old, stroking the white fur on her lap, when suddenly the sticky hot rage filled her, and she noticed red and pink mingling with the pure white. She had sunk her nails into the rabbit's neck, strangled it. As quick as the anger was there, it vanished, replaced by fear, repulsion, and a queer fascination at what she had done.
Other things perished or suffered as she battled to control this emotion. The problem was, it was never certain when it would happen or for what reason. Normally there wasn't a reason. Just that searing stabbing in her middle that made her want to kill.
Her first human victim was a bully, teasing her on her way home from school one day. She had become a loner, choosing to protect the other children near her. This separation was viewed as a difference, which always becomes a point of mockery.
The path she took every day went through the woods. The stick he reared back to smack across her legs never reached its intended target. She grabbed it, the small flicker of surprise on his face eliciting a wicked grin from the girl, and jammed the stick into the side of his neck.
His skull shattered quickly under the rock. When she came back to her senses, he was unrecognizable and her hands were smeared with his blood, brains, and skull. The peace she felt then scared her even more.
Was she really a murderer at heart? Those people were born that way, with the blood lust in their eyes, but normally they were found out early enough that they could be put to death, sacrificed to save the pure of humanity.
But here she was, hands stained with the blood of the pure.
The only solution was to contain this lust. This anger. So she began imagining the feats she wanted to commit. Allowing only her mind to indulge in the treat of blood and broken bones.
It wasn't enough.
Even now, her hands shake.
It won't be long.
She can't hold out much longer.
She isn't that strong.
You can't deny who you are.
The blade twisted deeper and deeper, the red and black spurting and gushing over the hilt and the the hand grasping it tightly.
The mental image healed her anger. A simple sort of release, a safe sort of release. Otherwise she might act on the bubbling bile brewing inside her mind and heart.
It wasn't always there. There were times of serenity and calm. Times when she could breathe easy and feel nothing. Then it would come, searing out of nothing, straight into her gut, and it refused to be held in.
The first time it actually scared her, the life of a rabbit ended. A pet. Six years old, stroking the white fur on her lap, when suddenly the sticky hot rage filled her, and she noticed red and pink mingling with the pure white. She had sunk her nails into the rabbit's neck, strangled it. As quick as the anger was there, it vanished, replaced by fear, repulsion, and a queer fascination at what she had done.
Other things perished or suffered as she battled to control this emotion. The problem was, it was never certain when it would happen or for what reason. Normally there wasn't a reason. Just that searing stabbing in her middle that made her want to kill.
Her first human victim was a bully, teasing her on her way home from school one day. She had become a loner, choosing to protect the other children near her. This separation was viewed as a difference, which always becomes a point of mockery.
The path she took every day went through the woods. The stick he reared back to smack across her legs never reached its intended target. She grabbed it, the small flicker of surprise on his face eliciting a wicked grin from the girl, and jammed the stick into the side of his neck.
His skull shattered quickly under the rock. When she came back to her senses, he was unrecognizable and her hands were smeared with his blood, brains, and skull. The peace she felt then scared her even more.
Was she really a murderer at heart? Those people were born that way, with the blood lust in their eyes, but normally they were found out early enough that they could be put to death, sacrificed to save the pure of humanity.
But here she was, hands stained with the blood of the pure.
The only solution was to contain this lust. This anger. So she began imagining the feats she wanted to commit. Allowing only her mind to indulge in the treat of blood and broken bones.
It wasn't enough.
Even now, her hands shake.
It won't be long.
She can't hold out much longer.
She isn't that strong.
You can't deny who you are.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Published
So one of my short stories was accepted by an online literary magazine.
It feels like a good start.
Go to the Four Cornered Universe to read it, and you can also vote on the story and leave comments.
:)
It feels like a good start.
Go to the Four Cornered Universe to read it, and you can also vote on the story and leave comments.
:)
Friday, January 15, 2010
Reputation
What should I think if a friend needs to rid them self of a voodoo doll, and the first person they think to ask is me?
Do I seem that dark and witchy?
Thursday, January 14, 2010
I Guessed Correctly
And so today begins another chapter in my endless struggle for a degree. This is my damn mountain. I awoke, freaking out and punching at the air, at 5:15 AM when my alarm went off. It was cold. The bed was warm. The snooze button was hit. Of course I did not go back to sleep. I fell into that place that is somewhere between sleep and awake, the unconscious coma-like state, where I know what's going on, but I have no means to affect it.
10 sad and restless minutes later, I drug my body from the bed and shivered into my clothes. Literally. I had goosebump flesh, and I didn't even have to do the "jean dance" to get my pants on. They just slid right up as I shook.
Checking the temperature as I headed out the door, I made a mental note to buy gloves of some sort. 20 degrees does terrible things to a car; mainly turning it into a giant ice cube.
Now that I live in Nashville, and go to school in the boro, my drive is exponentially longer. Which is ok. I'm leaving way before traffic really starts anyway, so there's that not to worry about. And finding a parking space? I had my pick of the damn litter.
The problem came as I was looking down at my schedule to double check the room number I was heading to.
Oh wait, I hand wrote my schedule down because the printer was broken.
And I'm slightly dyslexic.
Awesome.
This is a Tuesday/Thursday class, and I had written down, for each day, my schedule. For Tuesday, this class was in 218. But on Thursday, I had recorded the room as 128. I know, I rock at getting the correct information. Congratulate me on my mental disorders!
Unfortunately, knowing the building, these classes were not exactly on top of each other. Going to the wrong room meant being late for the class. And I heard professors really don't appreciate that type of thing. Then they black flag you, grade your assignments harder, pick you for the really hard questions in class, ... It's just not good, ok?
I made a split decision. And it was wonderful to come around the hall and see "History" written on the board of 218. I was never so glad to hear about Reconstruction and civil rights and the Compromise of 1877. And I think this teacher will be alright, as she used a well known country song: "God is Great, Beer is Good, and People are Crazy", to describe her take on history, this class, and society in general.
Also, she has a bumper sticker that reads "You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers."
She's the kind of role model we all need.
Also kids, my story "Both Ways" will be published in the January 16th edition of The Four Cornered Universe. I'll put a link up that day.
2010, please be good to me. You're starting off so nice, don't kick me in the ass later...
10 sad and restless minutes later, I drug my body from the bed and shivered into my clothes. Literally. I had goosebump flesh, and I didn't even have to do the "jean dance" to get my pants on. They just slid right up as I shook.
Checking the temperature as I headed out the door, I made a mental note to buy gloves of some sort. 20 degrees does terrible things to a car; mainly turning it into a giant ice cube.
Now that I live in Nashville, and go to school in the boro, my drive is exponentially longer. Which is ok. I'm leaving way before traffic really starts anyway, so there's that not to worry about. And finding a parking space? I had my pick of the damn litter.
The problem came as I was looking down at my schedule to double check the room number I was heading to.
Oh wait, I hand wrote my schedule down because the printer was broken.
And I'm slightly dyslexic.
Awesome.
This is a Tuesday/Thursday class, and I had written down, for each day, my schedule. For Tuesday, this class was in 218. But on Thursday, I had recorded the room as 128. I know, I rock at getting the correct information. Congratulate me on my mental disorders!
Unfortunately, knowing the building, these classes were not exactly on top of each other. Going to the wrong room meant being late for the class. And I heard professors really don't appreciate that type of thing. Then they black flag you, grade your assignments harder, pick you for the really hard questions in class, ... It's just not good, ok?
I made a split decision. And it was wonderful to come around the hall and see "History" written on the board of 218. I was never so glad to hear about Reconstruction and civil rights and the Compromise of 1877. And I think this teacher will be alright, as she used a well known country song: "God is Great, Beer is Good, and People are Crazy", to describe her take on history, this class, and society in general.
Also, she has a bumper sticker that reads "You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers."
She's the kind of role model we all need.
Also kids, my story "Both Ways" will be published in the January 16th edition of The Four Cornered Universe. I'll put a link up that day.
2010, please be good to me. You're starting off so nice, don't kick me in the ass later...
Monday, January 11, 2010
Sleep Well, Protector
Miep Gies has passed on, at the age of 100.
She protected the diary of a girl that became the household name of sadness and cruelty of the world.
Thank you Miep. And thank you Anne. May you both be resting in peace now.
Old Lady
I turned 25 yesterday. Me. I remember thinking 15 was old. And now I'm ten years past that. If you're older than me and reading this, and are just going to tell me I'm young with my entire life ahead of me, then you don't remember turning 25, or 30, or 40, and the fear that envelopes you that your life is rushing to some conclusion, and the steering wheel just came off in your hand. That's how I'm feeling right now.
Don't get me wrong, it was a good day. I got treated extremely well by the man who loves me, and taken out to dinner by my parents. And maybe a little more celebrating will go on tonight. But last night I was falling asleep, and the only thing I could think of was the scene in "When Harry Met Sally" where Meg Ryan is crying maniacally after her ex boyfriend got engaged.
And I'm going to be 40!
-When?
Someday... Its just sitting there like this big dead end. And its not the same for men. Charlie Chaplin had babies when he was 73.
-Yeah, but he was too old to pick them up.
It didn't help that my wonderful baby brother sent me a text message saying, "God,Sis, in 5 years you'll be thirty." What have I done with my life? If I died right now, what do they print on my tombstone?
Excuse me, I must go climb a mountain...
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Cozy
I am currently in bed with an AmStaff, a chihuahua, a daschund, my brother, and his girlfriend watching movies. I have not been this cozy and content in a long time.
Lessons From Fight Club
This is your life, and its ending one minute at a time.
Its only after we have lost everything, that we are free to do anything...
With a gun barrel between your teeth, you speak only in vowels...
On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.
The things you own end up owning you.
I am Jack's wasted life.
We're a generation of men raised by women. I'm wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.
If you don't claim your humanity, you will become a statistic. You have been warned.
Tyler Durden
Fight Club is the movie that gave me hope. Life does not have to be the empty shell of material waste slowly moving from year to year to a cold death. There are a million quotes in that book that amaze me and cause me to think and reflect.
Life is your life. It is important to find your happiness, not the amount of material possessions you can collect.
Chuck, thank you for this masterpiece.
If you're wondering, I am with my brother right now watching the movie (BOOK IS SO MUCH BETTER).
Its only after we have lost everything, that we are free to do anything...
With a gun barrel between your teeth, you speak only in vowels...
On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.
The things you own end up owning you.
I am Jack's wasted life.
We're a generation of men raised by women. I'm wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.
If you don't claim your humanity, you will become a statistic. You have been warned.
Tyler Durden
Fight Club is the movie that gave me hope. Life does not have to be the empty shell of material waste slowly moving from year to year to a cold death. There are a million quotes in that book that amaze me and cause me to think and reflect.
Life is your life. It is important to find your happiness, not the amount of material possessions you can collect.
Chuck, thank you for this masterpiece.
If you're wondering, I am with my brother right now watching the movie (BOOK IS SO MUCH BETTER).
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Congratulate Me!
I have just been notified that one of my short stories will be appearing in an online literary magazine at the end of January. Once I have the link, I will be posting it here, and I hope you guys check it.
I am so freaking excited, I can't even describe it.
Gettin' the ball rollin', guys. Gettin' the ball rollin'.
I am so freaking excited, I can't even describe it.
Gettin' the ball rollin', guys. Gettin' the ball rollin'.
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