Hot like the summer and mean like a child


I packed all of my belongings for the weekend in a pink duffle bag. I always had wanted to be one of those sophisticated women with overnight bags to show that she was planning on sleeping with someone and she was well equipped to do so. I didn’t have one of those bags though so my pink gym bag would have to suffice.

On my way to San Diego, I stopped by CVS and got two small boxes of pinot grigio. These were the perfect travel size to put into the glove compartment, my purse, or to just drink while driving because people thought the weird little carton was coconut water. I drank them warm and sometimes even hot if my car got too warm with the broken air conditioner. If I held my breath while I drank it, I could almost get rid of all the sourness that drowns the taste buds. I drank one and a half of the boxes of wine and as the GPS navigation was telling me I had arrived in front of Mark’s house. Then I chugged the last of it. I sat in my car telling myself it was possible to turn around and head back home or get more booze if needed. Before I gave it any more thought, I threw my door open and jumped out.

I marched up to the front door and saw the screen door was closed but the real door was open. Inside, there were men’s voices and a dog running back and forth. Before I could ring the doorbell, the silhouette of a man startled me.

The screen door flung open and I stepped back. There was the familiar stranger. Same blond hair, same crooked smile, a face that looked both young and aged, a disgusting goatee I made note of to mention later. I’d successfully eradicated badly styled facial hair for years. It might as well be Samson’s the way some men talked about it. And true, when they’d succumb, they often became strangely docile. This one would need to be taught docility.

His eyes were blue, shiney and crazed, his gleamy smile made me cringe. It was a smile that didn’t move his stone eyes. I watched him like a bad movie come to life. His arms began to reach for me.

I’ve never had a creepy uncle before but I imagined these are all the feelings one would associate with one. I shuffled towards the open arms as my gym bag hit the floor. My eyes shut involuntarily as his arms embraced me. I quickly tried to detach in case I smelled like booze then looked at him sheepishly from a close distance — I greeted this strange man.

The rest of our first date was mostly a blur.

Date: 2018-11-06
Words: 1568
Minutes: 56

NOTE: If you haven’t noticed, I’m posting a lot of old words from prior to 2020. When I got sober, I got in the practice of writing everyday. This doesn’t include my handwritten stuff of which I have a ton of notebooks as well. It was my religion. Now that I look back at some of it, I can’t help but laugh. Some of it makes me cringe, some makes me proud, and some I’m like, w o w –  I was crazy. Guess which one this is – enjoy!

[These are all mostly unedited except for typographical errors or grammatical errors that affect clarity or intended meaning.]

I said, “I was born At the bottom of a wishing well”.

NOTE: If you haven’t noticed, I’m posting a lot of old words from prior to 2020. When I got sober, I got in the practice of writing everyday. This doesn’t include my handwritten stuff of which I have a ton of notebooks as well. It was my religion. Now that I look back at some of it, I can’t help but laugh. Some of it makes me cringe, some makes me proud, and some I’m like, w o w – I was crazy. Guess which one this is – enjoy!

[These are all mostly unedited except for typographical errors or grammatical errors that affect clarity or intended meaning.]

Something good! Something good… something good to say about today is that I have eleven months sober and I think that’s something to celebrate. Something less celebratory is that I’m still single. Shrug. I can’t really blame God for keeping me single. That is who is behind this, right? Wink, wink. It’s okay, that’s what I keep telling myself. It’ll all work out. These are a lot of empty words to describe a very empty feeling. Here we go, the meat and potatoes of my loneliness. I’m simultaneously in love with several men and also absolutely love none of them. Perhaps even sadder is that I’m loved by none of them, either. There are a lot of theories behind why this might be. First of all, I’m not very desirable physically or emotionally. I’m not overconcerned with my weight and I refuse to put an emphasis on shaving my legs all the time. I have a sizeable amount of debt and a criminal record. My mental health record is a little spotty and I tend to overshare this information regularly. I talk about God a lot and I write pretty bad poetry and even worse, rambling prose. And actually, being lonely isn’t so bad at all.

Date: 2018-09-08
Words: 184
Minutes: 0

Now the only thing a gambler needs is a suitcase and a trunk

I don’t know where to begin so I’ll begin here. I called out of work because I feel like a miserable human being. I’m fat. I’m depressed. I’m ugly. I go to work and sit at a chair while clicking the same three links over and over and occasionally popping into my boss’s office in hopes she’ll bombard me with a ton more work to do. You wouldn’t think that most people would want more work but I do. I lived in such a chaotic mental space for so many years, I thrived under pressure in stressful deadline-driven environments. Then I calmed down. I had to calm down when I stopped drinking. I couldn’t continue the pace. For a few years, I’ve been afraid of picking up that pace again. But in a world that prohibits me from drinking and driving and recklessly ruining my life, I need to find some other way to find meaning. To find life again. For me, that would pitifully be through work. Wouldn’t it be amazing and great to work somewhere that would pay me just to write about my thoughts? Even this is almost alien, though. I used to be so much more familiar with a keyboard. Not the physical attribute of one, I can still type over 45 wpm with my eyes closed, but then most of humanity in the United States can. No, I meant I felt more familiar with it when I spent hours agonizing in emotional pain about which letters would tell my story best. My vocabulary was better and my metaphors were sharper. Now, my allegories are muddied and the reader always misinterprets what I meant to say. But that’s what Margaret Atwood says anyway, once you have created something and put it out in the world, it no longer belongs to you. She also says that a writer isn’t a writer unless they write. I haven’t written anything in a while, so I guess now is my time. I get exhausted by telling myself the same story I told myself while I was drinking. “This time will be different, this time I will eat healthier, this time I will exercise, this time I will write more, this time will be different.” Within 24 hours, all my will is gone and I’m calling off work and laying in bed with the blinds closed, mindlessly thumbing through hours upon hours of Instagram and Facebook feeds.

Date: 2018-09-05
Words: 406

Do you feel ashamed when you hear my name?

I’m not afraid. I’m going to sit here and type out my fearlessness to show you how unafraid I am. I’m not afraid of my mother finding out. I’m not afraid to attach my name to this. I’m not afraid of anyone reading this. I’m not afraid of what you think of me.

Sylvia Plath is on my side. She watches over me as I write.


I’m afraid of everything. I’m afraid of sounding asinine. I’m afraid of poor sentence structure. I’m afraid of sounding vain. I’m afraid of being shallow. I’m afraid of sounding ignorant or even worse, being read by the ignorant. I’m afraid of being misinterpreted.

Sylvia Plath is on my side. She watches over me as I write.

My writing drips of neuroticism and I hate that. I want to wipe it clean and forget I have two sides of me. I want to tidy up my writing so you think better of me. I want to create a vision of a person that knows what she’s actually writing about. I want to actually know what I am writing about.

Sylvia Plath is on my side. She watches over me as I write.

My writing should be boundless and unrestrained. I want to write Freedom and understand its name. I want to type with reckless abandon and forget about the editing phase. I want to pretend that when you read what I read, it’ll all be okay. I want to create a living organism with a heart that beats and a mouth that speaks through black words on a white page.

Sylvia Plath is on my side. She watches over me as I write.

No, I’m not afraid of hard work/And I did everything I want

I just got done telling God I feel like I’m in line, waiting at the DMV trying to get my license reinstated. Not sure how long I’ll be waiting, not sure if I’ll pass the driving test, but looking forward to what’s ahead. One step closer, one step closer… but geez, I hate waiting.

It’s okay, I’ve gotten better at it. This doesn’t make me less grumpy. Just quieter. Not really in the mood to talk because I have to anticipate what wild thoughts God has in store. His plans are really that – wild. I feel like he’s a great best friend/father who I tell in a tired delirium, “You know what would be so cool? To have a pet elephant!” Then opening my front door and seeing a baby elephant on my doorstep.

Super cool but like, I don’t know anything about elephants, God. What do I do with it? Is this one of those tests where you give me what I think I want and it turns out to be a nightmare? Bc I don’t like that movie, it always ends badly and I’m always the villain.

Anyway, after moping around and poking God for some progress, today there was some.

I’m still staring at it wondering what to feed it. What do I do with this one extraordinary life?

Just go where God takes me, I’m more than okay with that.

*shrugs and follows*

I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?

-Van Gogh

I could walk in 70 degree afternoons forever. And indeed, I tried. Unfortunately, Gladwell’s little legs had trouble keeping up. He let me know when he needed a time out. This he told me by plopping down mid-walk and refusing to get back up. Then, when he was ready, he’d stand back up and stare at me expectantly like, “Are you ready?” Then trot along wagging his tail.

Coppola, on the other hand, only rested once. He plopped right down beside Gladwell in the middle of the trail path and sniffed the flowers. Well, ok. Otherwise, he was pretty patient and took in the scenery when Gladwell needed to catch his breath.

I’m sure I had other plans for the day but I don’t remember any of them.

Ok, yeah..this is a good place to stop.

I’m likely not returning to social media anytime soon.

coppolaaaa

we decreased our screen time by 54%

But I felt compelled to update this here because of the handfuls of panicky people that have reached out and therefore, made me panicky as well. OMG, did I die and I don’t know!? ….No, no, I just got rid of Facebook and Instagram….

This little site is always being updated, in case you care enough to follow it.

Anyway, the end of the year is approaching and the book I have yet to complete sits on my desk. Every time I pick up a page to edit it, I feel strongly compelled to throw it away. Yes, because it’s awful writing. No, I’m not being self-deprecating, it actually truly is horrible. But also, I just am sick of the story. Why do I have to keep retelling the same story? This has always been my beef with God.  GOD, CAN YOU MAKE ME MORE INTERESTING, PLEASE? I’m sick of talking about alcoholism and mental illness. And by the way, God, you don’t exactly work as a great conversation starter when making new friends, either.

“What I believe about God is the most important thing about me.” – AW Tozer

At this point in time, I struggle to complete the book because 1) I’m happy and 2) I’m sick of the story.

Since I was a little girl, writing was my sanctuary. A place full of make-believe realities and investigative reporting of my inner thoughts on the observations of the outer world. Also, it was very private. I could say whatever I wanted because no one but me and maybe a teacher would read it. That honesty of my thoughts, however crazy they actually were, was the voice that grew. The voice that I learned to appreciate and listen to. And it was the voice that I lost when I became an alcoholic and realized I really couldn’t tell the true from the false anymore.

When I got sober, I figured I could write myself back to the truth. Find myself, that lost voice, somewhere between the worn-out ‘n’ key and the space bar.

Also, there was a very strange marriage between my conversion to Christianity and my writing revival. The two came about at the same time and I haven’t been able to peel them apart since then. Really, I stopped trying. Without God, I wouldn’t have the courage to write about even a quarter of the things I’ve written about.

But now I’m annoyed.

I’m annoyed because the anticipated comments, either positive or negative, began to worm themselves into my writing process. All these little voices of, “Well, how would so-and-so take this?” or “Do you think so-and-so will know you’re talking about them?” began to edit the words I wrote as I typed them.

IMG_4310

R.I.P. to the tree that had to die for my shitty story to live in the physical world.

So it’s helpful to be off social media. Even though the support and comments were overwhelmingly positive.

But also, I’m happy. It’s so hard for me to write when I’m happy! I just don’t see the point in curating the worst times in my life, prettying it up in neat little black and white letters, and serving it up for someone else’s eyes to feast on and suffer from. Half of me doesn’t even recognize that girl in the story anymore, and the other half just wants to politely nod at her so she’ll go away.

…and BY THE WAY, I don’t want to sound overly dramatic but Red Smith’s quote is accurate, “Writing is easy, you just open your veins and bleed.” It isn’t as though I can just “fake” the sorrow I felt when my parents came to visit me Thanksgiving week in jail. How my mom wore her prettiest blouse and my dad looked like he’d lost a ton of weight, and they just sat there smiling at me. Pretending they weren’t visiting their little girl in jail, the one they used to smother with too many hugs and words of encouragement. My mom’s hands, the ones I used to grab and pull and take the rings off of as a curious child as I sat on her lap. Now those soft plump hands were visibly aged and unpolished. My dad’s big brown eyes I recognized as the prototype for mine, had love beaming straight out of them, it hurt to look at them. It physically hurt to know these people created me, kept me alive, nurtured and loved me, forgave me, and there. I. was.

“…I think we are well-advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were.”-Joan Didion

It’s exhausting, is all I’m trying to say. But complaining about it here felt vaguely honest and somewhat familiar.

But anyway, I’m alive and well and happy and busy and writing and not writing and adopting all the dogs that love me. Call me if you have my number. Stop by if I can give you hugs. If you don’t, figure out a way to get in touch. People are pretty good at figuring that out.

Ok, bye.

Day 6 – NaNoWriMo

If I’m being completely honest, I’ve spent most of this evening replying to emails instead of writing. I flirted with the idea of just editing the last project I completed in November 2018 and trying to mold that into something that doesn’t bring me tremendous buckets of shame. Why is it so hard this? I waited until I was a year sober to start writing this book. Then I had revelations, an experience of how it should turn out. Then I started over. Now I’ve lost my voice.

I read what I’ve written and I don’t recognize the voice.

It’s like, here or in emails the writing comes with little effort. Even in person, I can retell parts of the story and I am satisfied. But when I open the document creatively named NaNoWriMo 2019, my language becomes halted. Terse. Alien. Forced.

This is disappointing.

07221-i-have-no-idea-what-im-doing-meme-27

God, help me.

NaNoWriMo – Day 5

Eek. Didn’t write for two days and I didn’t hit my word count today,

But I have untangled a necklace and cleaned my kitchen so… there’s that.

Uhh…. my blind deaf dog unsurprisingly cannot climb or descend stairs. I found this out at the park last night when we went down some steps and he um, like, tumbled the entire way down. Coppola looked back at his disabled brother and then just kept walking which I thought was pretty rude. But Gladwell just stood up on his pudgy stubby legs and tried to figure out which way to go. Poor little guy.

More words tomorrow I hope.