| Recap |
[Jan. 3rd, 2008|05:45 pm] |
There is so much to say about the holidays and I don't think I've articulated even half of it to myself yet. I can honestly say I had a fantastic time in Pittsburgh, despite not feeling perfect or of sound body and mind. I had all of these flexibly-set goals, mostly to visit certain people and places, and I was able to achieve all of them. Last year I was functioning moderately well too, but I was doped up on steroids and dealing with more side effects I could admit to everyone, including myself. The most difficulty I had this time around was having to relate, over and over, what I'm up to now, work-wise and such. I don't feel like I'm doing enough, and I'm not financially, and it's depressing to converse about different gigs I have, knowing that they all know: she is not supporting herself. I've become so used to delivering the same sentences over and over though, feigning excitement about what I'm doing and almost tricking myself into believing that I chose this path.
I held my Godson, whom I had not seen in over 2 years. He isn't really of holding-age at 4, so I asked him, "Can I hold you?" and he nodded yes, and I could have died happy right then and there. As I held him, his slightly older brother showed me his stuffed animal, Ribbits (frog), which I remembered because of the bed time rituals and making sure everyone had their favorite stuffed companion. I remembered rocking him to sleep one night, after the rest of them were in bed, and knowing I could put him down in his crib and choosing not to. This is it, I thought, it doesn't get any better than this, rocking a baby to sleep in your very own arms, watching his sleepy eyes watching you back before they succumb to tiredness.
On my last night, I went downtown with my parents to see the ice skating rink, the Santas around the World display, and the department store windows. As I turned from one window, to proceed to the next, a guy my age walked past me and gave me the most sincere smile I've seen in a long time. It was the strangest thing, not the normal flirtatious smile, not a silly grin, not a there's-pizza-sauce-on-your-face smile, just a genuine smile when we locked eyes for 2 seconds. I smiled back, without thinking, and then he passed. I followed his shape, as it got smaller and smaller, never turning around, and at that moment, that profound feeling of dread hit me that hadn't done so in years: I didn't want to leave.
I have never dealt well with transition from one place to another. I am usually fine the next day, but that transition time--on a bus, plane, car, or train--I am filled with dread. I cannot stand the in-between time, the limbo. Inevitably, when I arrive at the destination, the dread turns to sadness and weeping, not because this place isn't a home too, but because it all feels wrong, because I was in denial during the transition time, and suddenly feel dropped in the middle of nowhere. I don't understand why I'm there.
I hadn't felt that in a while because I always WANT to get back to wherever I came from, because it means I will have successfully traveled and "made it", that my illness did not prevent me from completing a trip. It's gratifying and exciting, and also a relief that I'm "done". This time around, I wasn't so concerned with my lack of capabilities; I was semi-confident for once, and therefore devastated that I had to leave regardless. I cried a bit at the airport, just sitting there by myself, but then had my new fear of flying to deal with and distract me. On my way back to Brooklyn from Newark, I was filled with dread, unhappy that public transportation was so quick and efficient. I felt full of anger but I didn't know why. Nothing felt right. I see Ian for the first time in over a week and I quietly unpack, then I sob for 20 minutes. Going to bed was what I needed to speed up the transition, I guess, because I felt "normal" the next day.
Now that everyone is returning to work though, I don't feel "right" anymore. I still have no idea what I should be focusing on, where my life is going, what I want to be doing, etc. I feel lost and confused and not busy enough, now that the holidays are over, but maybe that is also the proverbial winter blues and/or cabin fever, and the inability to hop on my bike and go to the park for an hour. I hope it will pass. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 11th, 2007|10:59 pm] |
Last week, I met with someone who wants crochet versions of some characters for a project he is working on. (And that's all I can say about that, b/c it's top-secret!) While I consider myself a people-person, I find one-on-one meetings like this a bit intimidating. It's a blind date, essentially. Some emailing back and forth, a description of each of our appearances ("I'm blond, pink jacket, and I'll have a bike helmet" -man that sounds bad-ass in hindsight!) Obviously I am not used to these kinds of situations because a) I was always a teacher and not prone to meeting new "clients", b) I have been in a relationship for a long time, and c) I never did blind dates, online dating, etc. (I either didn't date, or I, er, played. ;) )
I was surprised to find myself nervous, all the while knowing that I generally "rock" at these kinds of situations. It was more a case of being out of practice. Out of the two hours we were at this bar, drinking, talking, we probably discussed business for about 20 minutes. I then found myself wondering, "is this normal?" Should we be talking about Wes Anderson films, an old Dell commercial, softball, my family's rocket launches, his going to Studio 54 when he was 16? For some superficial reason I was happy that he had a wedding ring on and had been married for 23 years. But you know, when you're meeting a client who is an older man, and you are a young woman, there's a certain amount of caution that is present. I was more fearful that this project wouldn't be legit than I was about getting hit on. The latter I don't mind and can handle, but a potential creative crochet project going down the drain? Boo. :(
When I stumbled on home, less than a block away, I was more than tipsy but also really excited about meeting someone new who I would have potentially had nothing in common with but instead hit it off more than I expected. I emailed Brenna, telling her at one point that he said, "I never drink this much" and how come I always seem to cause excessive drinking in myself and others at bars? She responded: "You have a connection with people, Lich. That's what's great. They come to you, tell you things they never tell anyone and drink in the meantime." I guess that isn't too far from the truth.
There was such honesty in the way he spoke, describing how he used to get emotional watching shuttle launches or merely thinking about astronauts and their undertakings. Was it drinking, was it meeting someone new, was he always pretty open, was it me? It doesn't really matter, I guess.
If there is one single instance that stands out from the entire night, that hit me like the freight train of emotion I am used to, it is when he responded to a comment I made after I talked about being a teacher and loving children, about how I grew up around a lot of cousins and I was always holding or playing with one. I wish I could remember the exact words, but it was something like, "Yes, I could tell that, that you're good with children and will make a great mother." I have heard a similarly uttered statement countless times, and yet, it always makes my heart jump up into my throat, my body freeze up. How did he know? I spoke so casually about how I used to be a teacher. How could he tell? How can people see that, especially when they don't know me? Regardless of how many times I hear that, and actually because of the number of times, I am scared it will not be true. I feel like all these utterings will jinx me into being a bad mother, or God forbid, never a mother at all. So much hype, what if I don't deliver?
Anyway, in a non-cheesy way, it was magical to me how much insight you can have upon meeting someone new, how in some ways, it doesn't take years and years to know some "important" aspects of one's personalities. I hope it's not just the alcohol, which does tend to open up many people, but something more, in me, in him, in others. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 4th, 2007|10:11 pm] |
Whoa, 2.5 months later...time flies, not necessarily always while you're having fun; more a case of trying not to notice the passing of time at all, as I make statements in my head, such as, "It has been a year since I ______" and "I haven't gone to _______ in 9 months." Those immense amounts of time weigh so heavily on my shoulders and mind, and thus, I try to ignore them. In the same away, immense amounts of thoughts and feelings weigh me down to the point that I can barely breathe. I try to cast those off as well. Sometimes I don't know why I stop writing, here and elsewhere. I've stopped the literal process of writing in a notebook and replaced it with occasionally typing out thoughts in text files and word documents. The small comfort there is that I'm not choosing to type out thoughts because a computer is "better" than a notebook, but because the thoughts are racing so quickly, so forcefully, that I know I can purge faster by typing. In the past few years and maybe always, that is what writing has been: purging. Creativity and quality are of little concern; it is about discarding the disturbing, dense, pressing and DEpressing thoughts that fill my mind to the brim.
That is the convoluted way of saying that I am still writing. I am writing positive and happy things over at http://aliciakachmar.com, all true and sincere, but sometimes I don't feel like that is really ME writing there. It is a life that would be very fulfilling had I chosen it. It is a way to not twiddle my thumbs, a life that I can truly find fulfilling for long stretches of time, until I realize, wait a minute, this is not what I want to be doing.
The less positive things go elsewhere, or simmer in my head.
I find myself still drawn to musical lyrics in an intense way. I feel very capable of expressing myself, outloud and on paper, but there is something powerful and empathetic in a musician's lyrics when they hit the nail right on the head. I listen to a few sentences and exclaim in my head, Exactly! Exactly. Sometimes it's a feeling I was already feeling, articulated in a different way. And sometimes it's a feeling I didn't know existed inside of me, but as my eyes peruse the adjectives, nouns, and verbs, a familiarity deep down rises to the surface. Slowly but surely, another "Exactly" moment.
Recently, the song I am listening to the most is called "Heart's a Mess" by Gotye:
"Pick apart
The pieces of your heart
And let me peer inside
Let me in
Where only your thoughts have been
Let me occupy your mind
As you do mine
You have lost
Too much love
To fear, doubt and distrust
(It's not enough)
You just threw away the key
To your heart
You don't get burned
('Cause nothing gets through)
It makes it easier
(Easier on you)
But that much more difficult for me
To make you see
Love ain't fair
So there you are
My love
Your heart's a mess
You won't admit to it
It makes no sense
But I'm desperate to connect
And you, you can't live like this
Your heart's a mess
You won't admit to it
It makes no sense
But i'm desperate to connect
And you, you cant't live like this
Your heart's a mess
You won't admit to it
It makes no sense
But i'm desperate to connect
And you, you cant't live like this
Love ain't safe
You won't get hurt if you stay chaste
So you can wait
But I don't wanna waste my love"
Exactly.
Slightly unrelatedly, but related in the sense of "this is what's going on with me," I finally saw Mia and Romy, the two girls I have such love for, and who I also have not seen in a very long time. A year. I've really only gone to Manhattan a handful of times in the past 9 months, and those times have been calculated and not spontaneous. It is really because I love and miss them so much that I have not seen them. I have such a pain in my heart, or a void maybe, or a pain because of a void, from not being with them. I cry when I think about them, if we talk on the phone or email. There is something so much more pure and genuine about love for children, as opposed to love for a partner.
I called Mia earlier in the day, but didn't get a hold of her, but I went to Manhattan for something else anyway. I called again, but she didn't pick up. I got anxious, feeling so close (a mile?) and yet, still so far. I decided to walk around. Maybe I could go in some stores, or is there a museum or gallery around here? All of the immensities and intricacies of Manhattan were in front of me. And then I had this profound intense moment: it dawned on me that there is NOTHING in all of Manhattan, in the entire world really, that I would rather be doing than hugging Mia and Romy for the first time in a year. Nothing. I stood there on a rare cobblestone street, staring up at the blue sky and the light reflected on a building, thinking about its picture-worthiness and not caring at all that I forgot my camera. I don't care. I don't care about any of this. God my heart hurts.
I began to walk, with more purpose and determination than I have felt in a long time. I was nervous only because of the onslaught of emotion I would inevitably encounter. When I see them, having run down the stairs after calling me, I am everything at once. Elated, sad, excited, afraid, happy, depressed, anxious, euphoric. There they are, on the sidewalk where our three pairs of feet had trodden so many times together. And there come the tears, that precariously lay dormant but occasionally break through the surface, always there no matter how hidden and repressed. No one has made me cry out of such happiness; on the contrary, I have cried so much in the past year, out of pure negativity and anger. No one has made me this happy in the past year. It is so good to cry like that.
We climb the stairs together, hands clasped, smiles full, stories ready. |
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| Some pics from vacation |
[Jul. 25th, 2007|09:56 pm] |
We're too cool for school, lookin' hot and drinking PBR.
Ditto.
Drinking and picking at my ankle? I dunno...
Looking pissed; I probably was. Long story...
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 16th, 2007|09:07 am] |
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I'm off to the Outer Banks with Ian and his family! |
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| A little of this, a little of that |
[Jul. 11th, 2007|05:53 pm] |
Things have been going ok lately; each day is challenging, frustrating, and still a reminder that I am sick, but I have found some fulfillment in other things. I have put together different writing and crafting gigs, not enough to make a living if I lived independently, but still money that I can be proud of and experience that is related to my interests. It's not teaching, nothing is, and I still hate that I don't have a "real" job and can't support myself. I let that get me down a lot, to the point that I don't want to live another day if it's not the way I want to be living. And this is certainly not what I'd like to be doing right now, being a dependent woman who does lots of chores because of the unsaid rule that that is my job now. It's that daily sense of failure and submissiveness that makes my Smith degree nearly worthless. I know that isn't true, that I'm not a failure unless I call myself that, but it's so hard not to be able to live your dreams and be proud at the end of the day. I hope that will change, and more importantly, I hope I can be the one to change it.
I can't tell if I'm actually a stronger person, mentally, these days or if I've just tricked myself into filling my day with these little writing gigs and mini-jobs so that I have distractions. I know that so much of what I do is a way of diverting my attention inward to something outward. I bike to escape the house (when I can), sure, but it is much more about escaping my tormented mind. It is so much more pleasant to focus on crossing streets, watching for cars, looking at trees and people, feeling the breeze than to think. It's all about feeling, instincts and not so much about thinking. I rarely think about colitis, or not being a teacher, or wanting to kill myself, when I'm biking. In that sense, I wish I could bike forever, or rather, I wish I could replicate that feeling more often in the daily things that I do.
I have been reading more, a pastime I gave up because for months I decided that I didn't deserve leisure. I didn't consciously decide that, it just happened. I didn't read one book in months because a sick person who stays home a lot doesn't deserve something fun and leisurely like that, I thought. Books have always been gifts to me, words I can interact with on the train, in the car, before bed, on a day off. Reading is a treat and I tried to give it up because I figured I should always be writing, working on a (paying) project, doing laundry, washing dishes, cleaning, cooking, etc. I'm much happier now that I'm reading again, though I do still have a lot of guilt over doing it.
I recently saw the Michael Moore film, Sicko, and it really infuriated me about healthcare. I know he frequently stretches the truth, so I'm not saying I'm 100% a Michael Moore fan, but our healthcare system IS fucked up and most people know it. It is a profit-making business, which isn't so in most countries. Insurance companies try their damndest NOT to treat you. I could go on and on about it, but I won't! You should all see the movie though, just as a way to think a little more critically about healthcare in this country.
I spent 4 hours in hospital clinic today, because I'm on Medicaid and misunderstood that I couldn't see a new PCP in the hospital I like in his actualy private practice. I had to go to this chaotic clinic, where I waited forever, and don't even have the referral (yet) in my hands that I needed. A referral, mind you, for the colitis doctor, who I ALREADY see. I felt so bad watching all these people around me who are obviously struggling and who waited just as long as I did. I still know that I have some safety nets and they may not. It also really makes me want to sell my soul for great health insurance or millions of dollars, or marry someone who will give me either of those. It's sick that a fucked up health care system can do that to you, make it "healthier" for you to work for a mean, blood-sucking corporation rather than in museum education.
I also feel like if things don't change radically with my health, we don't suddenly get universal healthcare, or when my Medicaid runs out, I should put up an ad looking for a sugar daddy who will pay all my medical bills and give me his corporate insurance and an unlimited bank account. There are a lot of fucked-up people in NYC, so I'd bet someone would actually agree to that, probably in exchange for sexual favors. But hey, maybe that will actually fulfill me in that department too, since I don't get many of those b/c of my boyfriend's existential crisis or whatever (What's up sexual frustration, how are you today? Not so well, thanks for asking) I guess a random sugar daddy will be my last resort if I feel like I'm slipping through the cracks.
Recently I was listening to Etta James' "Security", and the words really ring true with what I just said above.
Security, yeah yeah
I want some security
I want security...yeah
Without it I'm at a great loss
Yes I am, now
Security, yeah, yeah
And I want it, any cost, yes I do now
Security is what I want right now
Your love is all right
But I need a little more honey
I can't spend your love
At the grocery store
Lyrics always sound so corny when read without the music. Anyway, I too, am looking for security because love doesn't write checks for my medical bills or prevent me from experiencing clinic hell. This is probably one of those entries I will regret writing tomorrow, but man did that all feel good to get off my chest! |
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| Train Trip to Tarrytown |
[Jul. 8th, 2007|10:56 pm] |
I've never posted a photo on lj, after 4+ years? Well, behold, Ian and Alicia:
More to come later... |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 21st, 2007|12:19 pm] |
I think I've mentioned this before, but I have these dreams that profoundly affect me because of their disturbing content. I only realized in the past few months that these complex dreams can really set the tone of the day and control my emotional response towards everything. I'm still ambivalent about regaining my ability to dream, after steroids-induced insomnia that lasted over a year. My future book should be called A Year Without Dreaming, or Dreamless. After I saw The Science of Sleep (the real French to English translation is The Science of Dreams), I had this revelation that dreams infect my reality and vice versa. Most of us experience the latter, finding bits and pieces of our days and thoughts in our dreams. But, occasionally, I can't distinguish between the two: I'll have a dream, that I don't consciously recall until much later, but I'll think that I actually did something, said something, wrote something, experienced something that really only occured in the dream. This is also a symptom of schziophrenia, which I'm relatively sure I don't have!
Luckily, the dream/reality problem doesn't affect my life too much, but disturbing dreams do. Dreams of close friends, loved ones, myself, or family members dying, plane crashes, car accidents, etc. Most of the dreams, predictably, revolve around issues of death, illness, and pain. Over the weekend, I watched the documentary that Lisa "Left-Eye" Lopes was making in Honduras before her death. (She was in the band TLC in case you don't remember). She had so many premonitions and the feeling that something was following her. Some time during the 30-day trip, a child walked in front of the car that she was riding in (she wasn't driving); the child died from head injuries, but Lopes felt like whatever that something was killed the child, instead of her, by mistake. She dies on day 27 while losing control of her car. They rolled several times after going off the road, down a small slope. Of the many passengers, it's unclear whether she was wearing a seatbelt (looks like she wasn't in the actual documentary) but she was the only one to be seriously injured, let alone die. The whole documentary was eery, raw, beautiful, deep, painful, and thought-provoking.
After I watched it, I started to think about that phrase "died instantly" that accompanies various tragic deaths and ways of dying. It is often the only source of comfort when someone dies abruptly like that, to know that they "died instantly" instead of suffering. But, when she swerved and started rolling, there were still seconds of being alive, seconds of thinking. Was she too much in shock to even think? Thinking of those few seconds is incredibly disturbing to me. Imagine a car driving off a high cliff with presumably even more seconds. Yes, the person would probably die instantly, but that person was alive during the entire fall. Knowledge of imminent death has to be a horrible feeling, compounded by helplessness at changing the course. Those seconds might theoretically be a short time, but wouldn't they feel like the longest of your entire life, because of their weight? To think of that kind of denouement is heart-wrenching.
So, I had this dream last night, part of which involved being in a plane. In general, I am not scared of flying; on the contrary, I get a rush from taking off and landing. I revel in the threshold between ground and air. I'm not ignorant of the risk of flying; I know there is always a possibility of fatality, but every second of life also holds that possibility and since I was born, I've had a lack of caution and sometimes foolish carelessness in dangerous situations. When I have dreams like this, it is very real for me, and my mind trudges through all the pertinent emotions, reactions, and feelings. So, when I awaken finally, I am EXHAUSTED. I have strolled towards death so many times in my dreams, and even though I am alive afterwards each time, I still endured all the profound and genuine psychological progression to impending death.
Anyway, I was in a plane that ran on a roller coaster track. The track looked much like the laser loop that used to be at Kennywood. The plane was stopped on one of the ends, where you're staring down at the ground and it was also open, like roller coaster cars. I'm not sure how, but we, the passengers, knew that once the plane started again, it would come off the track and nosedive to the ground. We were, literally, facing our deaths. And waiting. Waiting for motion that would end our lives, and yet stably situated in time and place. I woke up at that moment because my boyfriend got out of bed; I hate when dreams don't end, even ones where someone is dying. I have this inherent desire to know what happens, just like at the end of a fictional book or movie, regardless of the unimportance of a "fake" story. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 2nd, 2007|04:03 pm] |
These past few weeks I lost a lot of the motivations that I precariously held on to in order to get through the day. I was somewhat excited about various writing projects, even if I didn't actively pursue them. I felt better about going out a little more. I had so many craft ideas in my head, many of which I wanted to submit to magazines or contests. Unfortunately, I go through periods where all of those things still exist, but the motivations are gone. I happen to be in one of those now.
My health isn't any worse than it was, but my spirit and heart are crushed for a variety of reasons. I've adopted the "what's the point?" attitude, and it is difficult to make myself do the most basic things, like eating and showering. Last week I had the momentary distraction of planning for and organizing a barbecue in the park, which went really well. But, I've had a lot of trouble with eating--I just can't do it--and it got me thinking about the disagreement between body and mind.
I know my body wants food, but when I feel depressed and such, I have less hunger pains. But even when I do have hunger pains, my mind still says no. I already have a complicated relationship with food because of my illness, but this time around, my aversion to it is more parallel to an aversion to life. All I want to do is sleep, or rather, be unconscious. I want to be woken up when my life, healthwise and lovewise, is better. I am so tired of crying, so tired of my eyes burning from too many tears. So tired.
Yesterday I took a long bath so that I could cry by myself instead of enduring more fake comfort. I can't decide if I feel lonelier if I'm the only one in the room or not. I sat in the tub and realized I had no reason to get out. There was nothing waiting for me, no conversation to be had, no place to go. Why would I rush out and quickly get dressed? I felt frozen and stagnant. So, I I just lay there, half falling asleep, half hoping my body would just continue to shrivel up like a raisin in the sun.
Something has to change soon, and maybe that should just be my perspective. I'd much rather it be something more miraculous than that, like truly loving myself again or making more strides in terms of my health. Nonetheless, something has to change. |
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aliciak's journal
