My good friend and room-mate was broken up with by her boyfriend last night. Over the phone. She is an unusually unemotional person, and being with this guy has really started to open her up. She guards her heart hardcore. Which is why… it's all the more painful to see her in pain.
I went to see her at work and then when we both got off at 5 this morning (ah, the life of an overnight worker) we came home and I just sat with her for over an hour while she cried. I made tea, poured alcohol, fetched her Advil. I tried to think of encouraging things (do you bash the ex? do you say he'll come around? [no] do you try to be super logical? do you try to distract? do you tell her to cry and get it all out?!). I think I did okay.
It's weird, though. I've never been in that situation, but I have been in emotionally difficult places. I have had my heart broken, and in the process of putting it back together I think I damaged it even more. I don't think it functions quite properly now, and that's rather messed me up (not to say I can never love or whatever, but I don't think I was all that stable to begin with etc etc). I don't want that to happen to my friend. But the odd thing is, even though all I could think about was heartache for YEARS, I haven't the faintest idea of how to treat it in other people. To what extent can an outsider aid such a thing? What kind of advice can I give when she tells me she still wants to talk to him, when all she wants is for him to like her again? I wasn't in that relationship. I don't know.
It's especially strange when it's happening to someone not of my own personal emotional leanings. When my best friend's heart was broken and torn to shreds by her then-boyfriend (who broke up with her, got back with her, and is marrying her this year-- life, you be crazy), I hated on him. I brought my friend to stay with me for some of the summer in California for some rehab. Over that very trip he realized he missed her, wanted her back, and even had a long conversation with me confessing all that he had done wrong that he now understood. That was different, somehow, because that friend is like a part of me, and I had this crazy sense of how things were going to play out. This is different. Sometimes I just expect the right words to come out of my mouth, and then I realize, I really think too much of myself in this area. I give myself too much credit for recognizing things in people. Just because I am attentive doesn't mean I am omnipresent. I can't see it all.
Sometimes it's okay to not know what to say, isn't it?
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Saturday, October 13, 2012
though my story's seldom told.
Things I want to do:
1. Make a feature film sometime. A small one. Probably in North Dakota.
2. Continue with grad school.
3. Live in New York.
4. Sell alot of writing.
5. Have at least one of my scripts produced by a major studio.
6. Teach film.
7. Live in Scotland.
8. See America. Or more of it, anyway.
9. Play a musical intrument.
10. Have some sort of success before my mother dies. Or, more urgently, before my father forgets who I am.
I feel as though I've been watching and reading many interviews of talented people lately, and so many of them have an odd and tragic thing in common-- their parent, the person who would have most enjoyed their success, died just on the brink of that talented person's victory. JK Rowling's mother, who had only ever seen her daughter struggle, died when Rowling was halfway through the first Harry Potter book. She didn't even know about it before she died. Ralph Fiennes's mother passed just as Schindler's List was released and before Fienne's nomination. This is apparently a very, weirdly common phenomenon. It scares me more than failure.
1. Make a feature film sometime. A small one. Probably in North Dakota.
2. Continue with grad school.
3. Live in New York.
4. Sell alot of writing.
5. Have at least one of my scripts produced by a major studio.
6. Teach film.
7. Live in Scotland.
8. See America. Or more of it, anyway.
9. Play a musical intrument.
10. Have some sort of success before my mother dies. Or, more urgently, before my father forgets who I am.
I feel as though I've been watching and reading many interviews of talented people lately, and so many of them have an odd and tragic thing in common-- their parent, the person who would have most enjoyed their success, died just on the brink of that talented person's victory. JK Rowling's mother, who had only ever seen her daughter struggle, died when Rowling was halfway through the first Harry Potter book. She didn't even know about it before she died. Ralph Fiennes's mother passed just as Schindler's List was released and before Fienne's nomination. This is apparently a very, weirdly common phenomenon. It scares me more than failure.
Monday, September 24, 2012
to ink or not to ink.
Tattoos I am deeply considering:
A small Bluebonnet, which is the Texas state flower. I will do my best to never live in Texas again, but it's such a part of me.
Some of the lyrics from Let It Be on my forearm. Namely, "there is still a light, that shines on me, shine until tomorrow, let it be". I am aware that the phrase "let it be" is an incredibly popular tattoo choice, which I did not know when I initially became obsessed with the idea, and then dropped it because I did not want to be cheesy. But then, I thought, that's kind of wonderful, isn't it, for the people who are sincere about it? We have more in common than we think. Anyway, I like that strand of lyrics in particular. I also thought it might be kind of cool to involve the actual music notes from that selection, but I'm not sure how that would look.
A small Bluebonnet, which is the Texas state flower. I will do my best to never live in Texas again, but it's such a part of me.
Some of the lyrics from Let It Be on my forearm. Namely, "there is still a light, that shines on me, shine until tomorrow, let it be". I am aware that the phrase "let it be" is an incredibly popular tattoo choice, which I did not know when I initially became obsessed with the idea, and then dropped it because I did not want to be cheesy. But then, I thought, that's kind of wonderful, isn't it, for the people who are sincere about it? We have more in common than we think. Anyway, I like that strand of lyrics in particular. I also thought it might be kind of cool to involve the actual music notes from that selection, but I'm not sure how that would look.
"Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!" Or the scripture reference. Basically my lifelong spiritual struggle.
"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you."- Jane Eyre. I can't help it. I really love this.
A refined, victorian top hat. I am obsessed with doodling, and when I doodle. I ALWAYS try to draw the perfect top hat, and I always fail.
A teeny tiny owl. I know. I probably won't get this. But. OWLS.
I've missed the hell out of you, my darlings.
All right, I've missed blogging regularly. I've neglected the documentation of my North Dakotan adventures because I've been afraid of work people finding me and accusing me of being bad for writing about my experiences in caregiving, ND-style. But if I'm proper enough about it, I should be all right. And even if not, it's rather theraputic, this blogging thing.
Lots of occurances since I was last writing regularly. I suppose the bigger things were the deaths of several Residents at my nursing home workplace. I can't even really think, off the top of my head, how many there have been in a one-year span, but two of them I had an extra-special fondness for. One of them, my favorite old man of all time (we'll call him E, shall we?) died just before last Christmas, the night I was working. Three of us found him separately (in his room) before we managed to find each other, so three of us had to realize he was gone, on our own. It was a pretty hellish time leading up to that point-- in the nights previous all he would do was thrash around and cry and yell. Most of the stuff he said in that last week was either nasty or indecipherable, and he shrunk to such a tiny size. He broke his oversized blinds by ripping them from the window in a fit of rage, and one night he just wouldn't stop screaming help even though I was right beside him, holding his hand, pushing him back up in bed every five minutes (as he kept kicking and thus wiggling nearly out of the thing-- impressive, I guess, for a dying person). Anyway, the night he died my former coworker, Agnes, who's a bit like my mother figure around here (not to be confused with a Resident I may have mentioned with a similar name), had an eerie feeling, and so went to check on E. She realized, standing over him, that he had literally just died, so she left the room to find my Sardonic Coworker (how I miss him and his Sardonic-ness), just seconds before I came into the room to check on E. I had scared myself so many times by convincing myself that his chest was no longer moving up and down that once I finally saw him motionless I had to wonder how well my eyes were functioning. I then left to likewise track down Sardonic Coworker, who arrived in the room moments after I left it and had his own recognition experience. Finally, we all found each other, and gathered into the room to nod about and say goodbye to E. We called Hospice, who called family, who called us, and then we made a call to the local funeral people. We then collected all things of importance, changed E's abandoned body, and waited.
It had just started snowing a little outside, after snowing a bit on and off that week. It was the beginning of a mild winter for North Dakota (of course, that spellt a harsh winter for any Californian, so I was grateful). When the funeral person came to collect, we assisted him as he cheerfully went about his preparations, listening to him make peppy smalltalk, which was honestly just the most bizarre thing. Even more surreal is that you just go along with it, even when you're helping wrap a corpse in sheets and rest its head just-so; to make sure it stays put. That was perhaps the worst-- when they lift it onto the gurney, the resting of its head caused E's teeth to clank together, which is really a disheartening sound. And then we opened the doors for him, and he was gone. Afterwards Sardonic and I shared a cigarette outside in the mild snow; I don't think he even wore a jacket. I complained about what a bad night it was, Sardonic responded with the insanely dark comment that we were doing better than E at that moment.
A few nights later, though, Sardonic mentioned to me, ashen, that the morning after all this he had jolted awake, under the impression that beside him in his bed was the wrapped and covered silhouette of E's corpse, his distinct profile coming through the covers. Sardonic said he just stared at it, feeling like he was having a heart attack, until he fell asleep again for many hours. I didn't have any dreams like that, but I miss E. He was a racist and a bit of a sexist man, but he was magic, and I'm glad he went when he did; to see him suffer was torturous.
All that, and only one story from nearly a year ago. There's so much more to say. Tonight was a night off for me, I went outside on our balcony in the crisp fall night and watched the half-moon (orange) settle into a patch of ultra-thin, moving clouds. It looked like the reflection of the moon and not the real thing, like I was looking at it in moving water, like the earth was upside down.
Lots of occurances since I was last writing regularly. I suppose the bigger things were the deaths of several Residents at my nursing home workplace. I can't even really think, off the top of my head, how many there have been in a one-year span, but two of them I had an extra-special fondness for. One of them, my favorite old man of all time (we'll call him E, shall we?) died just before last Christmas, the night I was working. Three of us found him separately (in his room) before we managed to find each other, so three of us had to realize he was gone, on our own. It was a pretty hellish time leading up to that point-- in the nights previous all he would do was thrash around and cry and yell. Most of the stuff he said in that last week was either nasty or indecipherable, and he shrunk to such a tiny size. He broke his oversized blinds by ripping them from the window in a fit of rage, and one night he just wouldn't stop screaming help even though I was right beside him, holding his hand, pushing him back up in bed every five minutes (as he kept kicking and thus wiggling nearly out of the thing-- impressive, I guess, for a dying person). Anyway, the night he died my former coworker, Agnes, who's a bit like my mother figure around here (not to be confused with a Resident I may have mentioned with a similar name), had an eerie feeling, and so went to check on E. She realized, standing over him, that he had literally just died, so she left the room to find my Sardonic Coworker (how I miss him and his Sardonic-ness), just seconds before I came into the room to check on E. I had scared myself so many times by convincing myself that his chest was no longer moving up and down that once I finally saw him motionless I had to wonder how well my eyes were functioning. I then left to likewise track down Sardonic Coworker, who arrived in the room moments after I left it and had his own recognition experience. Finally, we all found each other, and gathered into the room to nod about and say goodbye to E. We called Hospice, who called family, who called us, and then we made a call to the local funeral people. We then collected all things of importance, changed E's abandoned body, and waited.
It had just started snowing a little outside, after snowing a bit on and off that week. It was the beginning of a mild winter for North Dakota (of course, that spellt a harsh winter for any Californian, so I was grateful). When the funeral person came to collect, we assisted him as he cheerfully went about his preparations, listening to him make peppy smalltalk, which was honestly just the most bizarre thing. Even more surreal is that you just go along with it, even when you're helping wrap a corpse in sheets and rest its head just-so; to make sure it stays put. That was perhaps the worst-- when they lift it onto the gurney, the resting of its head caused E's teeth to clank together, which is really a disheartening sound. And then we opened the doors for him, and he was gone. Afterwards Sardonic and I shared a cigarette outside in the mild snow; I don't think he even wore a jacket. I complained about what a bad night it was, Sardonic responded with the insanely dark comment that we were doing better than E at that moment.
A few nights later, though, Sardonic mentioned to me, ashen, that the morning after all this he had jolted awake, under the impression that beside him in his bed was the wrapped and covered silhouette of E's corpse, his distinct profile coming through the covers. Sardonic said he just stared at it, feeling like he was having a heart attack, until he fell asleep again for many hours. I didn't have any dreams like that, but I miss E. He was a racist and a bit of a sexist man, but he was magic, and I'm glad he went when he did; to see him suffer was torturous.
All that, and only one story from nearly a year ago. There's so much more to say. Tonight was a night off for me, I went outside on our balcony in the crisp fall night and watched the half-moon (orange) settle into a patch of ultra-thin, moving clouds. It looked like the reflection of the moon and not the real thing, like I was looking at it in moving water, like the earth was upside down.
Monday, July 23, 2012
awful, awful.
I wish I were better at so many things.
Lately, that feeling has been pretty much confined to being a better person. I am having a hard time understanding why I've done truly horrible things-- I can't help but realize that due to my willfull participation in these stupid acts that I am probably the worst sort of person there is. The type that knows when they're wrong but pushes on anyway; the type without any character. The type that is more concerned with coming off as being good rather than truly being good. Being good is something in the heart, something that you simply are when no one else is around. And I am not good. I have good points, but I am not good, and this hurts me, and I hope I can be better but I feel like all of this poor character may prevent me from succeeding at anything, including improvement of that very character. Ugh. Sin is such a weight. Such a weight. It's hard to hear my parents over the phone try to be cheering-- "But you're a good person, you can turn things around." No, I want to say. You don't know. I'm awful.
I'm not going to kill myself or anything. But I feel like my existence is more detrimental than positive. Sometimes I feel like I've scrambled myself so much that all I've got ahead of me should fill me with dread. And yet. I've gotten this far. Maybe there's a reason. Maybe I am due to be carved into a better piece of work, maybe there's hope and a plan. God I hope so.
On a more shallow level, I wish I were better at writing. And dedication. I am sucking so hard at all of the things I want to do, writing especially. And also I am so hideously fat right now I can't stand to look at myself most of the time. I want to push so hard to change these things but this bipolar thing is not helping. And also... ugh. I'm awful.
Lately, that feeling has been pretty much confined to being a better person. I am having a hard time understanding why I've done truly horrible things-- I can't help but realize that due to my willfull participation in these stupid acts that I am probably the worst sort of person there is. The type that knows when they're wrong but pushes on anyway; the type without any character. The type that is more concerned with coming off as being good rather than truly being good. Being good is something in the heart, something that you simply are when no one else is around. And I am not good. I have good points, but I am not good, and this hurts me, and I hope I can be better but I feel like all of this poor character may prevent me from succeeding at anything, including improvement of that very character. Ugh. Sin is such a weight. Such a weight. It's hard to hear my parents over the phone try to be cheering-- "But you're a good person, you can turn things around." No, I want to say. You don't know. I'm awful.
I'm not going to kill myself or anything. But I feel like my existence is more detrimental than positive. Sometimes I feel like I've scrambled myself so much that all I've got ahead of me should fill me with dread. And yet. I've gotten this far. Maybe there's a reason. Maybe I am due to be carved into a better piece of work, maybe there's hope and a plan. God I hope so.
On a more shallow level, I wish I were better at writing. And dedication. I am sucking so hard at all of the things I want to do, writing especially. And also I am so hideously fat right now I can't stand to look at myself most of the time. I want to push so hard to change these things but this bipolar thing is not helping. And also... ugh. I'm awful.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
If you live with me for longer than a month, you realize
A) I like to sleep alot.
B) I hate to wash dishes.
C) I always talk about writing but never seem to do it.
D) About every few weeks I binge on Flaming Cheetos and some kind of dairy product (but not milk, which I hate) to wash it down with.
E) I shower constantly but never seem to brush my hair.
F) I often parade around with a blanket cape. It's just a thing.
A) I like to sleep alot.
B) I hate to wash dishes.
C) I always talk about writing but never seem to do it.
D) About every few weeks I binge on Flaming Cheetos and some kind of dairy product (but not milk, which I hate) to wash it down with.
E) I shower constantly but never seem to brush my hair.
F) I often parade around with a blanket cape. It's just a thing.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)