Last evening / early morning, a good and quite wise friend (I hope you are reading this) explained confidence to me. I am cautious to qualify confidence- a concept, a goal, a state of being? Previous to last night, I thought of confidence as a goal to strive for, a "thing" to be attained through hard work, determination, and focus. Now, post-conversation with my sage friend, I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Did I think confidence was something magical that streamed down upon one, sparkling and glistening in a ray of light as angels sang, after said one ran the extra mile, raised the test score an extra 100 points, or captured the person of her dreams? Kind of.
"The difference between being confident and not being confident is just that. It's being." - sage friend.
"Huh?"- foolish me.
You are either confident or you are not. No amount of intellectual or physical achievement is going to make you confident. You have to be confident about who you are everyday, waking up, every morning.
I always found songs with lines such as, "I would die if I knew I could come back different" or "You go to sleep dreaming how you would, be a different kind, if you thought you could" really profound. It's exactly how I feel; I want to wake up different. Because waking up different would be waking up not exactly me, as I am now. I could wake up a different me, a confident me.
So, I work out, a lot. It's not to be healthy, it's to be thin and physically appealing. I read thoughtful books to seem interesting. I achieve(d) high grades to appear intelligent and successful and make people proud. I don't get caught listening to pop music because I don't want to be perceived as a shallow member of the current pop culture. This doesn't work.
Everything I am, is a facade. I am a fake and completely clueless. I have no idea what makes me happy or who I am. I feel completely uninteresting. And I am not at all confident.
Thus, doing what I have been doing, doesn't work. It's time to try something new.
What can I confidently say makes me happy? I am going to start small. I need to stop being afraid I will turn out to be something I have been striving not to be. I realize now, being true is better than being false and unhappy. So,
On working out: I <3 endorphins. I need them, I crave them. I love to run and it makes me feel good, especially when I increase my endurance. I get runners high and feel peaceful, in the zone. I like feeling in shape. I like abs and I like bones. However, I also love junk food. Peanut butter with chocolate and anything cookies n' cream themed is heavenly. I can eat a whole bag of cheese doodles.
On books: Entertainment is key. Some thoughtful books keep me interested, others don't. I will never enjoy respected, classic writers like Jane Austen or Charles Dickens. I like darker authors. Give me Fitzgerald, give me Salinger, give me modern day Burroughs or Palahniuk. I also read "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell" faster than all books written by the aforementioned authors.
On grades: They prove nothing. I achieved amazing grades. I worked really hard. Stress was involved in every assignment I was given- even assignments not worthy of stress. I retained nothing. The grades I achieved were for other people.
On music: I love music. I love knowing bands that aren't famous but I do listen to my fair share of bands/artists that are well-known and may even be considered sell-outs or pop. The song "Party in the USA" by Miley Cyrus makes me happy. Then again, so does "Two" by the Antlers.
A lot of this stuff has been hard to admit, to other people, to myself. I fear judgment. But I'm putting all this out there now. Liking Miley Cyrus doesn't make me a bad person, it makes me human. And I want to be a confident human. So, to start, I am going to be confident that I am human. Being human, I matter, literally. So don't cut me in line. Because I am standing there, confident in place, waiting to be acknowledged as a living person, who runs against herself, likes junkfood, is unimpressed by academics, and is smiling either because "Party in the USA" or "Two" is stuck in her head.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Another one
Here's another story. It's very rough- a first draft. It's somewhat fucked up.
Lying face down in the snow, she realized she could drown. The idea dawned upon her in far too an appealing way and she knew it. Most who lost their life in the snow froze to death. Never had she heard of an individual who choked on snow until her demise, lungs flooded by melted droplets of once frozen rain. Her body heat would surely melt the snow enough for this to happen. She had a college education.
The girl knew she just needed to wait. Minutes passed and she continued to breathe into the snow. It was cold and it was dark. It made her face hurt. She wondered if anyone would see her. She wondered if anyone would know she had done this intentionally when she was found, hours, perhaps days, later. Should she leave a note? She wondered if she was the first to have ever died this sort of intentional death.
And then a thought that had haunted and depressed her since she had first conceived it entered her mind. Nothing she could ever think would be something that had never been thought before. Every one of her thoughts, another already had. There was no such thing as original thought for someone like her. This had to do with her intelligence and the timeliness of her life. Brilliant inventors, decades ago, had to race to patent and publicize their revolutionary ideas and devices before someone else equally brilliant and innovative beat them to it. And even then, a more brilliant but less innovative individual may have had the seemingly new idea first. She knew, being a girl of average IQ who had done average things within the context of her life, that she would never have an original thought. She was very self-aware.
She thus concluded that she had not been the first to die intentionally in this manner. It was likely that she would belong to a smaller group of dead individuals, but death is the great equalizer, anyway.
But what if when people found her, they thought her death tragic? That she had slipped and fallen unconscious and suffocated unintentionally in the snow or worse, frozen to death, like so many others. Perhaps she should leave a note. She wanted people to know; she wanted credit. She chose to lie face down. She chose to melt the snow with her breath and slurp the puddle into her lungs. She did not fall like a clumsy idiot. And because of all this, life without her was the way it should be. The loss of her life was not tragic. It was intended and okay.
Then, breathing more slowly than before, she heard her name. “Anna.” At first, “Anna” was muffled by the sound of her thoughts and the hood of her jacket. She froze and stopped breathing. She waited to hear it again.
“Anna?”
The voice was inquisitive and curious. The voice was male.
Without an acknowledged thought, she pulled her face out of the snow. The winter air stung her cheeks, upon which melted snow burned a deep, fiery blush. Tiny icicles shattered from the lashes of her eyes as she broke them open. Looking up in a daze, she saw him. Her latest let-down. Her latest heartache. He was standing over her.
He shouldn’t matter and she knew this. Everyone around her knew this. She knew they knew because they told her so. But she was a fool. She was so very self-aware.
He pulled her to her feet. He held her by the shoulders and looked at her. Her blushing cheeks turned her pale skin into porcelain. The dark hair that framed her face made the blue eyes peering out from beneath her hood piercing and breathtaking. Her lips, chapped by the snow, were red and plump. She had never looked more beautiful. And, being a young boy under the influence of exciting hormones, he had never wanted her more. In that moment, the coldness he had shown her these past months melted away. He was in love.
She was delicate.
Taking her in his arms, he pulled her into him. Her face pressed against his chest, he embraced her with all the warmth and power of a man that he possessed. And moments later, her body went limp. He had suffocated her.
This was not intentional.
Oh, the loss of young life in love-
how fragile,
how, very,
tragic.
Lying face down in the snow, she realized she could drown. The idea dawned upon her in far too an appealing way and she knew it. Most who lost their life in the snow froze to death. Never had she heard of an individual who choked on snow until her demise, lungs flooded by melted droplets of once frozen rain. Her body heat would surely melt the snow enough for this to happen. She had a college education.
The girl knew she just needed to wait. Minutes passed and she continued to breathe into the snow. It was cold and it was dark. It made her face hurt. She wondered if anyone would see her. She wondered if anyone would know she had done this intentionally when she was found, hours, perhaps days, later. Should she leave a note? She wondered if she was the first to have ever died this sort of intentional death.
And then a thought that had haunted and depressed her since she had first conceived it entered her mind. Nothing she could ever think would be something that had never been thought before. Every one of her thoughts, another already had. There was no such thing as original thought for someone like her. This had to do with her intelligence and the timeliness of her life. Brilliant inventors, decades ago, had to race to patent and publicize their revolutionary ideas and devices before someone else equally brilliant and innovative beat them to it. And even then, a more brilliant but less innovative individual may have had the seemingly new idea first. She knew, being a girl of average IQ who had done average things within the context of her life, that she would never have an original thought. She was very self-aware.
She thus concluded that she had not been the first to die intentionally in this manner. It was likely that she would belong to a smaller group of dead individuals, but death is the great equalizer, anyway.
But what if when people found her, they thought her death tragic? That she had slipped and fallen unconscious and suffocated unintentionally in the snow or worse, frozen to death, like so many others. Perhaps she should leave a note. She wanted people to know; she wanted credit. She chose to lie face down. She chose to melt the snow with her breath and slurp the puddle into her lungs. She did not fall like a clumsy idiot. And because of all this, life without her was the way it should be. The loss of her life was not tragic. It was intended and okay.
Then, breathing more slowly than before, she heard her name. “Anna.” At first, “Anna” was muffled by the sound of her thoughts and the hood of her jacket. She froze and stopped breathing. She waited to hear it again.
“Anna?”
The voice was inquisitive and curious. The voice was male.
Without an acknowledged thought, she pulled her face out of the snow. The winter air stung her cheeks, upon which melted snow burned a deep, fiery blush. Tiny icicles shattered from the lashes of her eyes as she broke them open. Looking up in a daze, she saw him. Her latest let-down. Her latest heartache. He was standing over her.
He shouldn’t matter and she knew this. Everyone around her knew this. She knew they knew because they told her so. But she was a fool. She was so very self-aware.
He pulled her to her feet. He held her by the shoulders and looked at her. Her blushing cheeks turned her pale skin into porcelain. The dark hair that framed her face made the blue eyes peering out from beneath her hood piercing and breathtaking. Her lips, chapped by the snow, were red and plump. She had never looked more beautiful. And, being a young boy under the influence of exciting hormones, he had never wanted her more. In that moment, the coldness he had shown her these past months melted away. He was in love.
She was delicate.
Taking her in his arms, he pulled her into him. Her face pressed against his chest, he embraced her with all the warmth and power of a man that he possessed. And moments later, her body went limp. He had suffocated her.
This was not intentional.
Oh, the loss of young life in love-
how fragile,
how, very,
tragic.
A self-reflective snowed in weekend
This weekend, I got snowed in. The plan was not to be alone, but that is essentially how things turned out. My nerves had been shot all week and I was pissed off that the weather was going to ruin my long awaited weekend plans. I was taking this personally; weather forecasters on television were saying, “Jill, there is an 80% change you will need to cancel your plans this weekend and a 95% chance that this will take a toll on your personal life.” What I learned from being by myself for 72 hours was that the weather was not the sole force impacting my personal life. More forceful than the weather were people. And me.
Mostly me? It's not clear. I’ve blamed myself most of my life. But people are fickle and come with so many variables; they are dynamic, constantly changing. People are selfish, they want what they want. Myself included?
Some thoughts from the weekend...
I do things people want and if they’re happy, then I’m happy. I'm a people pleaser. Only, I’m not happy. And because people don't know better, I become personally offended. My unhappiness doesn't matter to them as long as they are happy, getting what they want. And then I classify them as selfish. I don't speak up until it's too late and I'm upset, a selfless victim. And then I just sound nuts. I’m often told I'm too sensitive. Surprise? No one wants to be around this- me, least of all. Surprise? I ended up alone this weekend.
Alone, with myself, was hard. I was self-destructive. Once I became more comfortable with myself, I took the time to do things I had not taken the time to do before. I learned some guitar, and I am proud right now of the blisters on my fingertips. I started reading a new book. I started writing this blog. I explored music I had not before and I enjoyed all activities thoroughly.
It might be better to be alone.
A snowed in self-reflection/realization: for an individual who exercises her independence as much as I do, I am extremely dependent. I realized this shoveling snow.
I accomplished the task of digging my car out of very high and very heavy snow. At first, I was resenting this job. I felt embarrassed because I was alone. A young girl with no help. I could only imagine what passersby were thinking. Someone should be there with me and no one was. No boyfriend and no best friend. Just me. I was angry but had no one to direct my anger at.
And then I remembered that it was my car and therefore my responsibility. It is incorrect to depend on anyone else to have a responsibility for me- I am responsible for me. And guess what? I took responsibility and I did it. I felt accomplished. And I received some unexpected help, too.
A neighbor I had never met helped me guide my car out of the tight space between snow mounds and into the street. I appreciated his kindness more than if I had had a man by my side, shoveling the snow for me, or a friend helping me, with the understanding that I would pay her back later. Their help would have been more for show than appreciated, too. It would be to say to passersby- look I have people that care about me. Really, passersby don't care. I'm the only one that does. Selfish.
So, what I learned from this weekend is, I’m alone but I’m not. I have a responsibility to myself and this may be the best way. And the most appreciated help comes with no strings attached.
I hope I can pass this on.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Tis the season...
Merry Christmas, readers. (Note: if you are looking at this, I am considering you a reader).
Tis' the holiday of giving, receiving, spending time with family and... eating and drinking. Perhaps even more so than Thanksgiving. My Italian father, with an intense love and knack for cooking, basks in the glow of opportunity to stuff his family (uncomfortably) full for one evening and one day, beginning Christmas Eve. Being Italian, we part-take in the Feast of the Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve. We have been doing this for as long as I can remember and each year the feast grows- not in the number of people who attend, but in the number of different dishes served. (The number of people who attend has actually dwindled over the years, causing me to question the actual, real appeal of this meal to others.) I am not sure exactly what seven fishes are traditionally present at such a feast- it is our tradition to improvise and place our orders with the cook, who rarely fails to serve more than one delectable version of a dish. For instance, this year my brother asked for crab. Crab cakes and warm lump crab meat with melted butter were present on our Christmas Eve table. Shrimp? This year they came deep friend, coconut coated, scampiied, and cold with cocktail sauce. Fried flounder and fried calamari also appeared among the spread. But there is one dish that trumps all the other concoctions and it is served first. Angel hair pasta with allege gravy. What is this allege gravy and how do you pronounce it, you ask? Phonetically: a-lee-j. What's in the name? Tomato sauce, some Italian spices, and anchovies.
Yes, anchovies. I know, exactly, the crinkled expression on your face as you re-read the word "anchovies." And yes, your vision is correct- those tiny, hairy, extremely potent, very fishy fish that make your eyes water if eaten alone (I do not recommend this). But, used in tomato sauce, they can be solely credited for the resulting coalescence of delicious sauce that my family and I look forward to once a year, all year long. And let me clear something up- the sauce isn't ridden with sunken chunks of revolting anchovy fish. Rather, the anchovies sort of melt into the tomato sauce, flavoring it in a less than powerful, salty type of way. Whatever though, it's awesome.
Our feast requires days of preparation and almost an entire 24 hour period of deep-frying. A deep-fried fog clouds our one-story ranch for about three hours prior to our meal. It is painful. Often, I need to take leave and stand outside, or open a window to breathe by. My eyes sting intensely. And though we devour this meal in about 30 minutes (if we take our time), it's totally worth it. It's not just about the food- it's the only 30 minutes of the year that the four of us sit down together at the same table without complaints. I would like to think that this is what everyone looks forward to, even more than my father's gourmet cooking.
But, I also do not want to kid myself. The food is fabulous and the drinks flow like water from the tap. This year, I promptly got drunk before the meal began, which made consuming an abundant amount of salty food all the more better (and me at the table all the more entertaining). The meal is also followed by my father's infamous Italian knot cookies (and this year, cheesecake!). In the morning we wake up to scrambled eggs, potatoes, coffee (and this year, giant cinnamon buns!) All day long we snack on leftovers and other holiday goodies, like candy. We start drinking early. Now it's time for some lasanga and ham.
Yeah, Christmas is definitely all about the food.
Tis' the holiday of giving, receiving, spending time with family and... eating and drinking. Perhaps even more so than Thanksgiving. My Italian father, with an intense love and knack for cooking, basks in the glow of opportunity to stuff his family (uncomfortably) full for one evening and one day, beginning Christmas Eve. Being Italian, we part-take in the Feast of the Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve. We have been doing this for as long as I can remember and each year the feast grows- not in the number of people who attend, but in the number of different dishes served. (The number of people who attend has actually dwindled over the years, causing me to question the actual, real appeal of this meal to others.) I am not sure exactly what seven fishes are traditionally present at such a feast- it is our tradition to improvise and place our orders with the cook, who rarely fails to serve more than one delectable version of a dish. For instance, this year my brother asked for crab. Crab cakes and warm lump crab meat with melted butter were present on our Christmas Eve table. Shrimp? This year they came deep friend, coconut coated, scampiied, and cold with cocktail sauce. Fried flounder and fried calamari also appeared among the spread. But there is one dish that trumps all the other concoctions and it is served first. Angel hair pasta with allege gravy. What is this allege gravy and how do you pronounce it, you ask? Phonetically: a-lee-j. What's in the name? Tomato sauce, some Italian spices, and anchovies.
Yes, anchovies. I know, exactly, the crinkled expression on your face as you re-read the word "anchovies." And yes, your vision is correct- those tiny, hairy, extremely potent, very fishy fish that make your eyes water if eaten alone (I do not recommend this). But, used in tomato sauce, they can be solely credited for the resulting coalescence of delicious sauce that my family and I look forward to once a year, all year long. And let me clear something up- the sauce isn't ridden with sunken chunks of revolting anchovy fish. Rather, the anchovies sort of melt into the tomato sauce, flavoring it in a less than powerful, salty type of way. Whatever though, it's awesome.
Our feast requires days of preparation and almost an entire 24 hour period of deep-frying. A deep-fried fog clouds our one-story ranch for about three hours prior to our meal. It is painful. Often, I need to take leave and stand outside, or open a window to breathe by. My eyes sting intensely. And though we devour this meal in about 30 minutes (if we take our time), it's totally worth it. It's not just about the food- it's the only 30 minutes of the year that the four of us sit down together at the same table without complaints. I would like to think that this is what everyone looks forward to, even more than my father's gourmet cooking.
But, I also do not want to kid myself. The food is fabulous and the drinks flow like water from the tap. This year, I promptly got drunk before the meal began, which made consuming an abundant amount of salty food all the more better (and me at the table all the more entertaining). The meal is also followed by my father's infamous Italian knot cookies (and this year, cheesecake!). In the morning we wake up to scrambled eggs, potatoes, coffee (and this year, giant cinnamon buns!) All day long we snack on leftovers and other holiday goodies, like candy. We start drinking early. Now it's time for some lasanga and ham.
Yeah, Christmas is definitely all about the food.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
That time I went to Ohio and supported a client's drug habit...
When I hear Ohio, I think yellow. Sometimes, bright orange.
I traveled to Ohio at the end of this week for a case. I was somewhat excited to meet the woman I was interviewing because she sounded like a cute, old lady on the phone, who would serve tea and cookies in her little apartment by her little Christmas tree and warm fireplace. I had hopeful prospects to schedule two more interviews on my trip, one with the adoptive stepfather and one with the crushed fiance. I arrived in Ohio in the early evening and rushed to complete the site visit shortly after I checked into my hotel. I re-scheduled the woman's interview for the following morning to leave myself a gap of time before my departing flight the next day, figuring I may be giving 2 more interviews.
I should have known this trip was going to be screwy when my flight had a layover in Philadelphia. It takes 14 minutes to fly from Baltimore to Philly- why the layover? Why not just go directly to Ohio? Oh, because not everyone on the plane is going to Ohio? Why the hell not?
The plane I was on for those 14 minutes was so small that all carry-on items had to be checked. I tried to think of myself as a wealthy traveler on a private jet, but this day dream lasted maybe 18 seconds- broken by the scene of one-seat rows, the fat man belching in front of me, the engaged 12 year old sitting across from me, and the resounding reminder that I could not order a $5.00 travel pack of almonds or an $8.00 cocktail because I was traveling on an Ohio per diem. Come to think of it, I'm not sure that such amenities were even an option on this particular flight.
Well, if this plane crashed, only about 16 unimportant people would die.
During my layover in Philly, I left messages for the stepfather and fiance. I was really pushing to interview the stepfather, as I figured he had helped raise the person I was researching and therefore had played a prominent role in her life, in who she was. I would later learn that he did all of the above and more-but would be thankful that he did not return my calls or respond to my letters. Let's just say he is a sick, fucked up individual who may be at the heart of blame for his stepdaughter's tragic demise. And it would not have been safe for me to be alone in a room with him.
Upon landing in Cleveland, I turned on my phone and was overjoyed to see I had a message from the fiance. He would have time for an interview either that evening or the following day! Perfect- I could get my rental car, check into my hotel, and do a site visit before dark. Then I could get dinner and relax in the luxury of my king-size hotel bed and watch TV and sleep peacefully knowing that I had two interviews tomorrow. Right? Wrong.
I called back the fiance and left a message. I got my cobalt (which was cool because I always liked the cobalt but I had never driven one) and made it to my hotel in 30 minutes. Excuse me- motel. MOTEL? Yes, I was being put up in a MOTEL behind DENNY's. Well, at least it was only one night.
The unfriendly, unhappy, rather large teenage girl with a really cheap highlight job pulled out a map and showed me how to drive to my room. Drive to my room? Oh, boy. As I drove, I noticed there were literally no cars in any of the parking spaces, except the parking space aside mine. I pulled up and parked next to the only other car in the lot- a pickup truck- and entered my room. I was relieved to find that it was not cock-roach infested nor were the sheets stained and hairy, but immediately noticed the audible, rhythmic creak of mattress springs resonating from the other side of the wall. Someone moaned. I had a site visit to make.
Driving to the site, I realized I was in the bad part of Lorain, OH, and became nervous. I locked my car doors- it was apparent I was white. I parked in a liquor store parking lot, took a deep breath, grabbed my camera, got out of my car, and quickly snapped a few shots. Thugs were looking my way and a few honked from their rides. Quickest site visit ever.
It was growing dark, I was growing increasingly tired and hungry, and the fiance still had not called back. I drove around and found a grocery store that looked safe (I saw a white person go in) and purchased a few snack items to have while I watched television and fell asleep in my motel room. I was settling into my bed and started thinking it would probably be a better idea for the fiance to come to a meeting room at my motel (if they had one) or for us to meet in a public place. I knew the fiance lived close by the site and was therefore one of the bad-part-of-towners; I was a young girl alone, without her pepper-spray.
Figuring I would not see him until daylight tomorrow anyway, I began to relax and snack and turned on the tube. Then my phone rang. It was him- he wanted to do the interview tonight- he had no mode of transportation- I was going to his place. I hoped I wouldn't die.
He had moved since the incident and was now living in a nicer part of town. He answered the door and he was white. Okay, relieved. (As I write, I'm beginning to think of myself as somewhat racist).
He showed me into a room where he had set up two chairs side by side, behind a coffee table covered in papers, news articles, and photographs. I began the interview, which I cannot go into for confidentiality purposes, and became calmed as I realized I was not going to be raped and murdered (which may have happened had I interviewed the stepfather). The fiance provided a lot of useful information and insight but kept harping on how depressed he was since his fiance "did this to him," how evil his fiance's mother is, and how he and his fiance were both ex-drug addicts. He reassured me that he no longer used drugs; he had been clean for years.
During the interview, I realized the apartment was covered in photographs of his fiance and the news articles were articles about her death. Did the apartment always look this way or did he set this up just for me, for sympathy points?
He knew I was interviewing the mother in the morning and warned me she would have terrible things to say about him. She would tell me he was to blame and he was addicted to cocaine. And that she was an evil liar.
As the interview wrapped up, he initiated small talk, asking unrelated questions. He wanted to know how I was finding my way around Ohio, if I knew where I could find myself something to eat, how I liked my hotel, and if I needed anything. I thought this was nice and that he was lonely, so I politely engaged in small talk. Then he asked for $20.
...
He showed me a paper he had received from a recent psychiatric hospitalization for depression. It listed three medications he needed to help him feel better. He told me he was afraid that if he didn't take them, he would turn out like his fiance. He needed $20 and had no one around to help him out.
Stunned, sympathetic, naive, and unable to ever say no to anyone, I gave him $20. He showed me the note his fiance left at the site.
I thanked him and hurried out, feeling $20 more broke and 20 times less wise. There was a good chance he fooled me into giving him money for coke.
Well, that was over and behind me. I couldn't take back my money. Plus, maybe he really was using it to buy anti-depressants to feel better. One thing was for sure either way, he was definitely using it to make himself feel better.
He called me about 9 PM that night, to tell me something else about the case. I wondered if he was high.
I met the mother the following morning, as planned. She was not a cute old lady- she was a recovering alcoholic and she was raw. Her bleached blond hair was tied up high in a pony tail, which she told me gave her a headache. Her apartment was freezing (there was no fireplace, though there was a Christmas tree) and she chain-smoked and cursed like a sailor during the interview, while her step-grandson ran around in his underwear. She bad-mouthed the fiance, like he had said she would, and gave me more reason to believe that I had indeed given him $20 to buy coke. I liked her. Raw=honest. Upon leaving though, she was surprised to learn that I was not from Ohio. She told me she could not tell I wasn't a regular Ohio hillbilly. I no longer liked her or Ohio.
I raced to the airport and caught an early flight and got the hell out of Ohio. The fiance called me three times and wanted to know what the mother had said about him. I said "nothing terrible." He said I was very professional and easy to talk to and thanked me for the money, which he had since used to purchase his pills. I told him I hoped he felt better and to take care.
What the fuck, Ohio?
I traveled to Ohio at the end of this week for a case. I was somewhat excited to meet the woman I was interviewing because she sounded like a cute, old lady on the phone, who would serve tea and cookies in her little apartment by her little Christmas tree and warm fireplace. I had hopeful prospects to schedule two more interviews on my trip, one with the adoptive stepfather and one with the crushed fiance. I arrived in Ohio in the early evening and rushed to complete the site visit shortly after I checked into my hotel. I re-scheduled the woman's interview for the following morning to leave myself a gap of time before my departing flight the next day, figuring I may be giving 2 more interviews.
I should have known this trip was going to be screwy when my flight had a layover in Philadelphia. It takes 14 minutes to fly from Baltimore to Philly- why the layover? Why not just go directly to Ohio? Oh, because not everyone on the plane is going to Ohio? Why the hell not?
The plane I was on for those 14 minutes was so small that all carry-on items had to be checked. I tried to think of myself as a wealthy traveler on a private jet, but this day dream lasted maybe 18 seconds- broken by the scene of one-seat rows, the fat man belching in front of me, the engaged 12 year old sitting across from me, and the resounding reminder that I could not order a $5.00 travel pack of almonds or an $8.00 cocktail because I was traveling on an Ohio per diem. Come to think of it, I'm not sure that such amenities were even an option on this particular flight.
Well, if this plane crashed, only about 16 unimportant people would die.
During my layover in Philly, I left messages for the stepfather and fiance. I was really pushing to interview the stepfather, as I figured he had helped raise the person I was researching and therefore had played a prominent role in her life, in who she was. I would later learn that he did all of the above and more-but would be thankful that he did not return my calls or respond to my letters. Let's just say he is a sick, fucked up individual who may be at the heart of blame for his stepdaughter's tragic demise. And it would not have been safe for me to be alone in a room with him.
Upon landing in Cleveland, I turned on my phone and was overjoyed to see I had a message from the fiance. He would have time for an interview either that evening or the following day! Perfect- I could get my rental car, check into my hotel, and do a site visit before dark. Then I could get dinner and relax in the luxury of my king-size hotel bed and watch TV and sleep peacefully knowing that I had two interviews tomorrow. Right? Wrong.
I called back the fiance and left a message. I got my cobalt (which was cool because I always liked the cobalt but I had never driven one) and made it to my hotel in 30 minutes. Excuse me- motel. MOTEL? Yes, I was being put up in a MOTEL behind DENNY's. Well, at least it was only one night.
The unfriendly, unhappy, rather large teenage girl with a really cheap highlight job pulled out a map and showed me how to drive to my room. Drive to my room? Oh, boy. As I drove, I noticed there were literally no cars in any of the parking spaces, except the parking space aside mine. I pulled up and parked next to the only other car in the lot- a pickup truck- and entered my room. I was relieved to find that it was not cock-roach infested nor were the sheets stained and hairy, but immediately noticed the audible, rhythmic creak of mattress springs resonating from the other side of the wall. Someone moaned. I had a site visit to make.
Driving to the site, I realized I was in the bad part of Lorain, OH, and became nervous. I locked my car doors- it was apparent I was white. I parked in a liquor store parking lot, took a deep breath, grabbed my camera, got out of my car, and quickly snapped a few shots. Thugs were looking my way and a few honked from their rides. Quickest site visit ever.
It was growing dark, I was growing increasingly tired and hungry, and the fiance still had not called back. I drove around and found a grocery store that looked safe (I saw a white person go in) and purchased a few snack items to have while I watched television and fell asleep in my motel room. I was settling into my bed and started thinking it would probably be a better idea for the fiance to come to a meeting room at my motel (if they had one) or for us to meet in a public place. I knew the fiance lived close by the site and was therefore one of the bad-part-of-towners; I was a young girl alone, without her pepper-spray.
Figuring I would not see him until daylight tomorrow anyway, I began to relax and snack and turned on the tube. Then my phone rang. It was him- he wanted to do the interview tonight- he had no mode of transportation- I was going to his place. I hoped I wouldn't die.
He had moved since the incident and was now living in a nicer part of town. He answered the door and he was white. Okay, relieved. (As I write, I'm beginning to think of myself as somewhat racist).
He showed me into a room where he had set up two chairs side by side, behind a coffee table covered in papers, news articles, and photographs. I began the interview, which I cannot go into for confidentiality purposes, and became calmed as I realized I was not going to be raped and murdered (which may have happened had I interviewed the stepfather). The fiance provided a lot of useful information and insight but kept harping on how depressed he was since his fiance "did this to him," how evil his fiance's mother is, and how he and his fiance were both ex-drug addicts. He reassured me that he no longer used drugs; he had been clean for years.
During the interview, I realized the apartment was covered in photographs of his fiance and the news articles were articles about her death. Did the apartment always look this way or did he set this up just for me, for sympathy points?
He knew I was interviewing the mother in the morning and warned me she would have terrible things to say about him. She would tell me he was to blame and he was addicted to cocaine. And that she was an evil liar.
As the interview wrapped up, he initiated small talk, asking unrelated questions. He wanted to know how I was finding my way around Ohio, if I knew where I could find myself something to eat, how I liked my hotel, and if I needed anything. I thought this was nice and that he was lonely, so I politely engaged in small talk. Then he asked for $20.
...
He showed me a paper he had received from a recent psychiatric hospitalization for depression. It listed three medications he needed to help him feel better. He told me he was afraid that if he didn't take them, he would turn out like his fiance. He needed $20 and had no one around to help him out.
Stunned, sympathetic, naive, and unable to ever say no to anyone, I gave him $20. He showed me the note his fiance left at the site.
I thanked him and hurried out, feeling $20 more broke and 20 times less wise. There was a good chance he fooled me into giving him money for coke.
Well, that was over and behind me. I couldn't take back my money. Plus, maybe he really was using it to buy anti-depressants to feel better. One thing was for sure either way, he was definitely using it to make himself feel better.
He called me about 9 PM that night, to tell me something else about the case. I wondered if he was high.
I met the mother the following morning, as planned. She was not a cute old lady- she was a recovering alcoholic and she was raw. Her bleached blond hair was tied up high in a pony tail, which she told me gave her a headache. Her apartment was freezing (there was no fireplace, though there was a Christmas tree) and she chain-smoked and cursed like a sailor during the interview, while her step-grandson ran around in his underwear. She bad-mouthed the fiance, like he had said she would, and gave me more reason to believe that I had indeed given him $20 to buy coke. I liked her. Raw=honest. Upon leaving though, she was surprised to learn that I was not from Ohio. She told me she could not tell I wasn't a regular Ohio hillbilly. I no longer liked her or Ohio.
I raced to the airport and caught an early flight and got the hell out of Ohio. The fiance called me three times and wanted to know what the mother had said about him. I said "nothing terrible." He said I was very professional and easy to talk to and thanked me for the money, which he had since used to purchase his pills. I told him I hoped he felt better and to take care.
What the fuck, Ohio?
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Putting a plan into action (finally)
So, the plan all along was to post short pieces of fiction I had written in this blog. Writing short fiction is a definite passion of mine, but I can never seem to finish anything. This first piece I am posting is not, by any means, my favorite or anything I am particularly proud of. In fact, I think I could have written it much better. It is, however, the first piece I have finished in a very long time. I do not have a title for it and will probably edit it a myriad number of times if I ever decide to do anything with it.
I like this piece because I wrote it at two very different points in my life. I began it not knowing how things were going to turn out. Things turned out in a way that I was hoping they would not. Like the girl in the story, I was in denial. Knowing was just too painful. But now I know and I am relieved.
Anyway, here it is.
She got out of bed because she could not sleep. He had been sleeping for quite a while. She knew she would wake him but it would be brief, a momentary interruption from his dreams. She did not feel badly. He often fell asleep first and had exciting and interesting dreams that he would tell her about in the morning. She often lay in bed long minutes and hours listening to him snore and would not have much to talk about in the morning, over coffee.
It was not his snoring that kept her from sleeping on this particular night, however. His snoring had, on other nights, delayed her slip into unconsciousness. Tonight, the darkness of the room and the vacancy of her mind prevented her from sleep. This dark room reflected the blankness in her head. Such blankness echoed so loudly that his beastly snores composed a lullaby lost in the background.
Awkwardly, she maneuvered her body over his to escape her bed’s embrace. He rolled over, awoke, and asked, sleepily, where she was going. She told him she needed water and offered to bring him something. He said yes and was satisfied. She knew he would very soon be asleep and bringing him something would only entail waking him again. She never intended to give him anything (and often made empty promises). She had not even stood before he began to snore.
She found her way out of the dark room, fumbling around a misplaced desk chair and trudging through worn clothes. A stray hairclip broke into pieces beneath her bare foot and she quietly cursed in the darkness, the pieces of her life.
Stairs creaked as she skipped down them. She hated the sound of these stairs but right now she found relief in the way they broke the empty silence of the apartment. Strangely, she felt like she was doing something, even if it was just making a noise, causing a racket.
Akin to a robot, she sat down at the dining room table in her self-designated seat. She stared straight ahead into the living room, and clasped her hands together in something like polite prayer. She sat still then, akin now to a statue, and freed herself from the constraints of time. She was well aware that a sleepy eyed boy would not appear at the bottom of the creaky stairs, to look for her, concerned. He did not miss her to hold onto in the darkness. He used miss her when she would leave a room too long in the middle of the day. He used to be that into her. But things were not that way anymore.
She did not let herself think about this though. She kept her mind blank. Blank was now how she got through her days, but blank was keeping her awake tonight. Blank prevented her from feeling, from admitting, being less than happy. She guessed this was better. It was better than knowing things had changed and that there was no one to blame. Time had simply passed.
It wasn’t a matter of how much time had passed- she suddenly needed to lie down. Pulling herself up and sliding her chair in, she turned to face the stairs. Then she faced the couch. She stood in a trance, seduced by its offer to let her collapse in weakness and rest until beams of sunlight pierced through the slits of living room blinds. Her trance was broken by the subtle sounds of snores.
These sounds grew louder as she climbed the creaky stairs. She entered her room and saw him, lying on his side, facing away from her. His back was bare and so she went to him, to cover him, because really, she loved him. He turned over and faced her. He lifted up the covers and stretched his arms out to receive her. She slipped into bed and he pulled her close beneath the blanket. He had no idea. Her head fit beneath his chin, cradled in the sling of his neck. He kissed her softly on the forehead, and moments later, began to snore. She was lost again, under the covers, secure in his embrace. It was good enough for now.
She drifted into a dreamless sleep, then, and slept the rest of the night, the best she could.
I like this piece because I wrote it at two very different points in my life. I began it not knowing how things were going to turn out. Things turned out in a way that I was hoping they would not. Like the girl in the story, I was in denial. Knowing was just too painful. But now I know and I am relieved.
Anyway, here it is.
She got out of bed because she could not sleep. He had been sleeping for quite a while. She knew she would wake him but it would be brief, a momentary interruption from his dreams. She did not feel badly. He often fell asleep first and had exciting and interesting dreams that he would tell her about in the morning. She often lay in bed long minutes and hours listening to him snore and would not have much to talk about in the morning, over coffee.
It was not his snoring that kept her from sleeping on this particular night, however. His snoring had, on other nights, delayed her slip into unconsciousness. Tonight, the darkness of the room and the vacancy of her mind prevented her from sleep. This dark room reflected the blankness in her head. Such blankness echoed so loudly that his beastly snores composed a lullaby lost in the background.
Awkwardly, she maneuvered her body over his to escape her bed’s embrace. He rolled over, awoke, and asked, sleepily, where she was going. She told him she needed water and offered to bring him something. He said yes and was satisfied. She knew he would very soon be asleep and bringing him something would only entail waking him again. She never intended to give him anything (and often made empty promises). She had not even stood before he began to snore.
She found her way out of the dark room, fumbling around a misplaced desk chair and trudging through worn clothes. A stray hairclip broke into pieces beneath her bare foot and she quietly cursed in the darkness, the pieces of her life.
Stairs creaked as she skipped down them. She hated the sound of these stairs but right now she found relief in the way they broke the empty silence of the apartment. Strangely, she felt like she was doing something, even if it was just making a noise, causing a racket.
Akin to a robot, she sat down at the dining room table in her self-designated seat. She stared straight ahead into the living room, and clasped her hands together in something like polite prayer. She sat still then, akin now to a statue, and freed herself from the constraints of time. She was well aware that a sleepy eyed boy would not appear at the bottom of the creaky stairs, to look for her, concerned. He did not miss her to hold onto in the darkness. He used miss her when she would leave a room too long in the middle of the day. He used to be that into her. But things were not that way anymore.
She did not let herself think about this though. She kept her mind blank. Blank was now how she got through her days, but blank was keeping her awake tonight. Blank prevented her from feeling, from admitting, being less than happy. She guessed this was better. It was better than knowing things had changed and that there was no one to blame. Time had simply passed.
It wasn’t a matter of how much time had passed- she suddenly needed to lie down. Pulling herself up and sliding her chair in, she turned to face the stairs. Then she faced the couch. She stood in a trance, seduced by its offer to let her collapse in weakness and rest until beams of sunlight pierced through the slits of living room blinds. Her trance was broken by the subtle sounds of snores.
These sounds grew louder as she climbed the creaky stairs. She entered her room and saw him, lying on his side, facing away from her. His back was bare and so she went to him, to cover him, because really, she loved him. He turned over and faced her. He lifted up the covers and stretched his arms out to receive her. She slipped into bed and he pulled her close beneath the blanket. He had no idea. Her head fit beneath his chin, cradled in the sling of his neck. He kissed her softly on the forehead, and moments later, began to snore. She was lost again, under the covers, secure in his embrace. It was good enough for now.
She drifted into a dreamless sleep, then, and slept the rest of the night, the best she could.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
November: an artistically sad month
I have been dreading November for months. It had been looming in my future, a gloomy, orange shadow (when I hear November, I think orange). November was near enough to know my life would not be different when it came, but far away enough that knowing this depressed the hell out of me. I would still be here, working part-time with a less than desirable resume, having failed to seriously consider applying for graduate school. I would not have finished the book I have been reading since the summer and I would not have written any stories of my own. And I would be alone.
November is artistically sad- people sing about this. I know 20 emotional songs affirming the same thing: November is a fucking miserable month. The day gets shorter and the night gets longer. The weather gets cold and dead leaves fall like rain. Not to mention, it rains.
But today, November is exactly halfway over. Everything that I knew would be true in November is. Somehow, though, it doesn't make me too sad. I feel okay. I feel so okay that I cannot believe how quickly November is passing by.
November is artistically sad- people sing about this. I know 20 emotional songs affirming the same thing: November is a fucking miserable month. The day gets shorter and the night gets longer. The weather gets cold and dead leaves fall like rain. Not to mention, it rains.
But today, November is exactly halfway over. Everything that I knew would be true in November is. Somehow, though, it doesn't make me too sad. I feel okay. I feel so okay that I cannot believe how quickly November is passing by.
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