I recently wrote a blog about how I had never decorated my home because I had been afraid that I would have a man I wanted to be with came over, he would think my decor was so eccentric or eclectic that he'd run screaming from the place and thus I would be alone forever. Here's another thing that made me change my mind about that...
I recently spent a good deal of time in the home of a man whose ex-wife spent the last years of their marriage covering every available wall of their house with the most hideous atrocities against pleasant home design I have ever seen. She even went so far as to paint their bedroom (a place that should have been filled with passion, romance or at the very least relaxation) a color best described as Rancid Baby Caca. If that wasn't a passive hint that there was trouble in paradise, I don't know what would have been.
By doing things like insisting that he never wear red (pouting angrily when he did, insisting he had done so as a deliberate affront to her), driving away any friend that empowered him or disagreed with her, spoon feeding him his life and domineering the rest, she had basically decorated the man much the same way as she had their home. I don't know what bothers me more; that she was self-absorbed and grotesque enough to insist up on that being the case, or that he had let her do it. Whatever the case, both he and the house were tailored specifically to her eerily selfish taste, both were as far from seeming like a cohesive whole as one could imagine, both were teeming with potential and equally as completely unable to attempt change without someone else coming in to do the hard work. I can't even describe how frustrating that was to me.
Still, if I had gotten married when I wanted to, which was right out of high school, or even say... ten years ago, I would have innitially suffered the same fate. Maybe not entirely, but I would have stuck myself in a situation where my significant other may have gotten quite used to my bending to their every whim, tailoring myself to them like a living suit of support and love and service. I was well on my way with the man I was supposed to have been married to by now. Without my determination to grow and get better and change, I might well be splotched with emotional paint effects that made no sense, and caused people to gasp and recoil at the lost potential. I wouldn't relive a lot of what got me to this place, but I had to experience it all to get where I am and there is a depth of value to that I cannot fathom.
So don't doubt that The Universe sends us messages all the time. As with the three ghosts in Dickens's A Christmas Carol, I have been shown visions of my past, my present and my would be future. I too have woken from my slumber shouting, "There's still time! I can make it right!" One thing is for certain... anyone who comes at me with their can of Rancid Baby Caca paint, is in for a big suprise.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Saturday, January 5, 2008
On Red and Regret (a concordance with “Danger Amy”)
Having left my apartment of nearly seven-ish years, I look back and think about how much fun I could have had decorating the place and didn’t start until about a year ago. Now I find myself in a place where I am expected to have to vacate in about two years and wondering if I should go through the trouble of decking my walls with luscious ruby red paint only to have to change it back in such a short time. The answer is resoundingly YES! Here’s why.
Once upon a time I was a blank canvas. I was gessoed up and ready for bright splashes of vibrant colors and sweeping textures of all kinds. Instead of deciding what I wanted on that canvas, I allowed other would-be artists to dictate the artwork known as Gina (Gina, being a name that I not only hated on myself but never felt connected to, and therefore allowed a dear friend to rename me when I was 23 and had undergone the first wave of positive change in my life… Sunny will be legal this year).
As the years went on, the people around me kept editing my canvas. Some contributors insisted that what they saw never changed no matter how many edits had been made. Some continued to add and subtract elements they didn’t like in hopes of forming the ideal masterpiece. Others would stand back, in awe, and watch the constantly evolving work; sometimes feeling fearful of what it was becoming and occasionally envying the fact that it wasn’t tied to staying forever the same. For a while, I didn’t mind it so much because I didn’t believe I really knew who I was anyway. It was so much easier to let others create me because it was their acceptance, their approval I desired most and I believed that if I let them mold me into what they wanted I would have what I desired. I was wrong. I was very, very wrong.
The same thing applied to my home (an extension of myself). I was afraid to pick out furniture, paint the walls, decorate in any strong fashion because I didn’t want to alienate a man who might want to have a relationship with me. Having grown up with people who believed largely as I did, or had suggested that I believe as they do out of some misguided idea of helping me find a mate, it had never occurred to me to really sit down and question that perception. Even when my ex-intended moved in with me, I was ready to let him lay a heavy hand on the decisions of how our home would look (which was asinine considering the most decorative item he owned was a figurine of Marilyn Monroe that he salvaged from a man's house who had committed suicide). All the while, somewhere underneath, I was thinking things like, “I want an Enchanted Tiki Room dining area!” or “I have always wanted a brothel / bordello bedroom” knowing full well that he would never agree to it. After I asked him to leave, I lost all interest in romance or decorating for a couple of tumultuous, busy, gut twisting years. Then a series of events took place that changed everything. And I mean… EVERYTHING.
During the gut twisting years, I met a man who once worked in special effects for film who had decorated his home in a way much like a Disney Imagineer would have. So much so, that many of the pieces were ones he had recreated in his garage workshop and he shared this home with his love (at the time). When I was getting a particularly healthy refund from the IRS, he took me to where he had gotten a good deal on his furniture (which was unique and yet still comfortable and homely). After sifting through no less than fifteen fabric books, I came upon a fabric that had a Moroccan look. My idea had been that I wanted a “Midnight at the Oasis” living room and it fit what was in my head perfectly. The main color is a deep, rich, dark red. When the furniture arrived, I remember my heart racing like crazy. I was so excited I couldn't sleep for days. I'd had no idea how good making that decision would feel.
At the same time, my then boss was unloading a lot of lovely fabrics, much of which were silk shantung that matches my furniture perfectly. It was as though I was being given a sign.
Not long after, I attended my first Bats Day at Disneyland. For those of you who do not know what Bats Day is, it’s sort of a gathering for all kinds of alternative types that the “normal” folks would call FREAKS. It was also the most comfortable and happy I’ve been at Disneyland in a long, long time. For once I was looking around and seeing people I understood and felt comfortable being around. More importantly, I was seeing them and their significant others and their families. That day, I finally began to realize that it didn’t matter what I looked like, how I dressed, what kind of furniture I had or art I chose. Anyone who truly loves me would either like the same things, or at least love me enough to live with it. When I finally disconnected from the hyper-judgemental, never accepting people in my life, it was the clearest that concept had ever been. Suddenly, I felt free to do whatever felt right, be whomever I choose, and live as I wish to live. Moreover, I finally let it sink in that to prohibit myself from doing something fun or fulfilling or creating an atmosphere where I feel comfortable and relaxed in order to appease the tastes of someone for the sake of their acceptance is just stupid and silly.
I have many regrets that I have let go of, some that come to me in dreams when I cannot stop them from haunting me, but more often than not I don’t allow them to run my life. But the single most burning regret I have, is that it took me this long to figure out how to live my life. To me, the best way to celebrate is with boldness, the richness, the power and sensuality that I believe is in me… and is represented by the color Red.
Once upon a time I was a blank canvas. I was gessoed up and ready for bright splashes of vibrant colors and sweeping textures of all kinds. Instead of deciding what I wanted on that canvas, I allowed other would-be artists to dictate the artwork known as Gina (Gina, being a name that I not only hated on myself but never felt connected to, and therefore allowed a dear friend to rename me when I was 23 and had undergone the first wave of positive change in my life… Sunny will be legal this year).
As the years went on, the people around me kept editing my canvas. Some contributors insisted that what they saw never changed no matter how many edits had been made. Some continued to add and subtract elements they didn’t like in hopes of forming the ideal masterpiece. Others would stand back, in awe, and watch the constantly evolving work; sometimes feeling fearful of what it was becoming and occasionally envying the fact that it wasn’t tied to staying forever the same. For a while, I didn’t mind it so much because I didn’t believe I really knew who I was anyway. It was so much easier to let others create me because it was their acceptance, their approval I desired most and I believed that if I let them mold me into what they wanted I would have what I desired. I was wrong. I was very, very wrong.
The same thing applied to my home (an extension of myself). I was afraid to pick out furniture, paint the walls, decorate in any strong fashion because I didn’t want to alienate a man who might want to have a relationship with me. Having grown up with people who believed largely as I did, or had suggested that I believe as they do out of some misguided idea of helping me find a mate, it had never occurred to me to really sit down and question that perception. Even when my ex-intended moved in with me, I was ready to let him lay a heavy hand on the decisions of how our home would look (which was asinine considering the most decorative item he owned was a figurine of Marilyn Monroe that he salvaged from a man's house who had committed suicide). All the while, somewhere underneath, I was thinking things like, “I want an Enchanted Tiki Room dining area!” or “I have always wanted a brothel / bordello bedroom” knowing full well that he would never agree to it. After I asked him to leave, I lost all interest in romance or decorating for a couple of tumultuous, busy, gut twisting years. Then a series of events took place that changed everything. And I mean… EVERYTHING.
During the gut twisting years, I met a man who once worked in special effects for film who had decorated his home in a way much like a Disney Imagineer would have. So much so, that many of the pieces were ones he had recreated in his garage workshop and he shared this home with his love (at the time). When I was getting a particularly healthy refund from the IRS, he took me to where he had gotten a good deal on his furniture (which was unique and yet still comfortable and homely). After sifting through no less than fifteen fabric books, I came upon a fabric that had a Moroccan look. My idea had been that I wanted a “Midnight at the Oasis” living room and it fit what was in my head perfectly. The main color is a deep, rich, dark red. When the furniture arrived, I remember my heart racing like crazy. I was so excited I couldn't sleep for days. I'd had no idea how good making that decision would feel.
At the same time, my then boss was unloading a lot of lovely fabrics, much of which were silk shantung that matches my furniture perfectly. It was as though I was being given a sign.
Not long after, I attended my first Bats Day at Disneyland. For those of you who do not know what Bats Day is, it’s sort of a gathering for all kinds of alternative types that the “normal” folks would call FREAKS. It was also the most comfortable and happy I’ve been at Disneyland in a long, long time. For once I was looking around and seeing people I understood and felt comfortable being around. More importantly, I was seeing them and their significant others and their families. That day, I finally began to realize that it didn’t matter what I looked like, how I dressed, what kind of furniture I had or art I chose. Anyone who truly loves me would either like the same things, or at least love me enough to live with it. When I finally disconnected from the hyper-judgemental, never accepting people in my life, it was the clearest that concept had ever been. Suddenly, I felt free to do whatever felt right, be whomever I choose, and live as I wish to live. Moreover, I finally let it sink in that to prohibit myself from doing something fun or fulfilling or creating an atmosphere where I feel comfortable and relaxed in order to appease the tastes of someone for the sake of their acceptance is just stupid and silly.
I have many regrets that I have let go of, some that come to me in dreams when I cannot stop them from haunting me, but more often than not I don’t allow them to run my life. But the single most burning regret I have, is that it took me this long to figure out how to live my life. To me, the best way to celebrate is with boldness, the richness, the power and sensuality that I believe is in me… and is represented by the color Red.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Death of a Supposed Smack-talker.
Early this morning, I awoke to realize that I had not yet washed the dishes in the sink, and got up to make sure they were clean before my roommate arose at her usual 5 am. Like all things I intend to do, my chore was put off by swinging by my laptop to see if there was anything going on of interest. Strangely enough, there was.
Normally, I’m not in a big hurry to read blogs. But for some reason, when I got a notification in my Facebook that Kevin Smith* had updated his blog, I headed over to take a look. The post was about the suicide of a young girl named Megan Meier, an overweight, depressed teenager who once lived in St. Louis. I say “once lived” because events that took place between she and an imaginary boy named Josh Evans over MySpace became the impetus for Megan to hang herself by a belt in her bedroom closet. The worst part (as if that isn’t bad enough)… Josh never existed. He was the creation of the 48 year-old mother of a neighborhood friend who had been fishing for whether or not Megan was talking shit about her daughter.
I’ll get to my perspective on the tragedy of what happened to Megan at the hands of her so-called friend’s harpy mother in just a minute. But first, my thoughts about how I came upon this story.
What struck me about Smith’s post, aside from the disturbing content, was that it was an unusual experience for me to hear/read a man’s genuine perspective on something like this. That is not to say that men don’t have opinions on such matters; it’s just that more often than not when they do speak their mind about something this distressing it is rarely with any passion and usually said in a way that says, “I want to show you that I think this is awful and it bothers me, but I am not comfortable discussing such things so I am not going to leave my statement open-ended. Please call your female friends for further dialogue.” I have known some fairly sensitive males in my day that still wouldn’t want to talk about some 13 year old girl’s life with that way. Still, Kevin is, after all, a father and a writer so is more likely to discuss than others might be; but that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve some respect for having spoken his piece about something like this. Bravo Kevin.
Another thing that struck me is that Smith had a somewhat similar story to share, about how an ex-girlfriend's mother's involvement in their relationship became the motivation to basically harass him after the breakup. In her fight to regain him for her daughter (so it seems), this woman’s last ditch attempt to wear him down was to hand Kevin a note essentially ssuggesting that at the ripe, old age at 18 he admit that he would be a failure as a writer. Luckily in Kevin’s case, it didn't become his undoing and he used her words as further motivation to succeed (or at the very least saved her note as a reminder of how she was wrong). I can't speak for all of his fans, but I - for one - am really glad she didn't succeed in her ploy. I’d love to say I’d never heard something like that before, but I would be lying.
So now I find myself wondering what is burning most on my mind? Is it the question of the responsibility of adults when it comes to how they communicate with kids or even one another, particularly on the internet? I’ve had more adults misrepresent themselves to me online than I can count! Is it the overzealousness of a nearly fifty year-old woman and her sociopathic route to protecting her child (because I think we all know that when someone goes to that kind of sick length, it is more about their own pathos than that of their child)? Or is it the dangers of trying to find love on the internet, the perils of being an overweight teenage girl or my rant on how easily people – especially children - are “diagnosed” with depression these days and how I feel that to tell someone in that state that they are clinically so is basically condemning them to a life of excusing sullenness on their “condition”?
I’ll start here…
There are a million and one misconceptions I have uncovered in my life and there are bound to be at least that many more that I haven’t yet stumbled upon. One thing I know in the most intimate way is that just because a person is older, married, has children, a great job, a house or what-have-you, doesn’t mean they are a reasonable, rational human being. Sure, once upon a time the word “adult” denoted trustworthiness, wisdom, authority, responsibility. “If you are in trouble, find the nearest adult” was once a reasonable suggestion for a child who might become frightened. That is not to say it was always true and based on reason, but it was what a lot of people in my generation were raised to believe; that most adults were protective, wise and caring and the only ones to be scared of were the ones who wanted to get you into their car and give you candy. My mother was a perfect example of how wrong that assumption can be. Nobody on Earth has filled me with more lies, more misguided notions of the world and it’s workings than she did and it wasn’t out of some cruel design. She was mentally damaged, selfish and ignorant (among other things) and a like a lot of “adults” she believed that because she had all the trappings of authority, that she must be right. Then I was reminded of how many adults I had known in my childhood who had a profoundly negative influence on my life and it is clear that she wasn’t alone. (side note: I can remember watching a film in my grade school cafeteria/auditorium about how some man might want to lure me into his car with candy and how I was supposed to run away, and distinctly recall wondering if my mother had put the school up to it because she had me on diets from the time I was four).
I’m not going to sit here and tell you that a 48 year-old has no way of knowing what kind of damage she can do to a 13 year-old girl’s psyche. But I am going to tell you that to expect her to know the correct way to approach a child about her concerns for her daughter are dangerously flawed. To believe that is to assume that she has no ulterior motive, no deep-seated mental illness that this incident brought forth, and more importantly, that she is a mature enough, deep enough, well-rounded enough human being to have the tools to deal with something like this on the higher ground. How many people do you know that can do that? How many of them are someone you would trust to speak to your child about anything of importance (whether you have a child or not)? My God, adults have a hard enough time getting along with one another! I still have an adult out there who attempts to wage wars with me and slander me over the internet that I have not so much as sassed in over fifteen years. So how do we expect people, just because they are older, to know how to deal?
The thing is, this woman is not blameless because she is not a well developed, well-rounded human. She is responsible for the death of the girl. And I’ll tell you why…
She conversed with this Megan, a 13 year old, overweight girl looking for love. Megan was lovely, too; gorgeous eyes, sweet smile (braces or not). But of course, that wasn’t enough for some reason (be it social alienation, her mother, the media or whatever oppressive influence made her feel like she was not good enough). And this woman, this busybody mother, emailed back and forth with such a girl in MySpace. So she had to have had intimate details of how lonely, alienated, sad and desperate for romantic acceptance Megan must have been through that correspondence. There could be no doubt in her mind that she was going to devastate the girl when she turned on her, started calling her names and ultimately crushed her dreams of romance. Who doesn’t remember how much the loss of potential romantic connection makes you wish you were dead when you’re 13? Even so, she continued to torture this girl’s heart and soul. If that doesn’t imply sickness, honey I don’t know what does. She is guilty of torture, no matter what excuse she conjures in her defense. But murder? I can’t say.
See, I was tortured myself when I was younger. I was overweight, and not nearly as lovely (I was being informed regularly by my mother that I was a troll because I wasn’t skinny and popular, so much so that I believed it until I was well into my late 20s, and it showed on the outside). Boys played with my heart for fun, adults made hideous, hurtful comments and not one of them gave another thought as to the damage they might inflict. While I often wished for death, I was too strong or too scared to do it myself. I would find a reason to go on living. Even if it was something as trivial as knowing that I would get to go to Disneyland in two years, or foolishly believed my mother’s empty promises of braces for my teeth or a new bike. I refused to give up that easily. I refused to die. And so to that end, I imagine that Megan must have been far less driven than I was at her age to see how being a grown-up would be. She did, after all, choose how to resolve her pain. She chose death on her own.
Not everyone can suffer through the kind of agony she must have been feeling. I’m still shocked and pleasantly surprised that I did. And when I was well into my thirties a forty year-old friend said to me, “I’ve not heard half of the things that happened to you when you were a kid and I know that if I had been in your shoes, I wouldn’t have made it.” I was shocked and bewildered by that statement from a strong, independent woman. That was the first time I knew that not everyone had the same reserve of determination to go on. Now, I don’t expect it so easily in others. But I don’t know that many people who put enough thought into… well… anything, to know the effect they will have on another’s life and certainly not when it comes to their agenda. So I don’t believe for a moment that the over-zealous mother had any intention to see Megan die over her imagined smack-talking. If she wanted the girl dead, she would have killed her.
I feel for Megan’s parents. They must wonder if there is anything more they could have done, if they could have somehow foiled their neighbor’s plan or proved that Josh Evans was a hoax and saved their beautiful little girl. To my mind, there isn’t a whole lot they could have done. The mother seemed to have her eye on things and it still went out of control. But does the father wonder what he might have done? Maybe if fathers were more involved in their daughters’, they would be able to spare them the endless wondering of why boys do what they do. Maybe Megan’s father would have known that his daughter wasn’t actually talking to a boy at all. Who knows? But you have to admit… it wouldn’t have hurt. It’s nice to see at least one dad is paying attention.
*If you don’t know who Kevin Smith is, you have clearly been living in a cave and have never seen or heard of such cult classics as Clerks, Chasing Amy and Dogma. If you have, indeed, been cave dwelling for the past 15 or so years, go here to see out what he’s all about.
Normally, I’m not in a big hurry to read blogs. But for some reason, when I got a notification in my Facebook that Kevin Smith* had updated his blog, I headed over to take a look. The post was about the suicide of a young girl named Megan Meier, an overweight, depressed teenager who once lived in St. Louis. I say “once lived” because events that took place between she and an imaginary boy named Josh Evans over MySpace became the impetus for Megan to hang herself by a belt in her bedroom closet. The worst part (as if that isn’t bad enough)… Josh never existed. He was the creation of the 48 year-old mother of a neighborhood friend who had been fishing for whether or not Megan was talking shit about her daughter.
I’ll get to my perspective on the tragedy of what happened to Megan at the hands of her so-called friend’s harpy mother in just a minute. But first, my thoughts about how I came upon this story.
What struck me about Smith’s post, aside from the disturbing content, was that it was an unusual experience for me to hear/read a man’s genuine perspective on something like this. That is not to say that men don’t have opinions on such matters; it’s just that more often than not when they do speak their mind about something this distressing it is rarely with any passion and usually said in a way that says, “I want to show you that I think this is awful and it bothers me, but I am not comfortable discussing such things so I am not going to leave my statement open-ended. Please call your female friends for further dialogue.” I have known some fairly sensitive males in my day that still wouldn’t want to talk about some 13 year old girl’s life with that way. Still, Kevin is, after all, a father and a writer so is more likely to discuss than others might be; but that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve some respect for having spoken his piece about something like this. Bravo Kevin.
Another thing that struck me is that Smith had a somewhat similar story to share, about how an ex-girlfriend's mother's involvement in their relationship became the motivation to basically harass him after the breakup. In her fight to regain him for her daughter (so it seems), this woman’s last ditch attempt to wear him down was to hand Kevin a note essentially ssuggesting that at the ripe, old age at 18 he admit that he would be a failure as a writer. Luckily in Kevin’s case, it didn't become his undoing and he used her words as further motivation to succeed (or at the very least saved her note as a reminder of how she was wrong). I can't speak for all of his fans, but I - for one - am really glad she didn't succeed in her ploy. I’d love to say I’d never heard something like that before, but I would be lying.
So now I find myself wondering what is burning most on my mind? Is it the question of the responsibility of adults when it comes to how they communicate with kids or even one another, particularly on the internet? I’ve had more adults misrepresent themselves to me online than I can count! Is it the overzealousness of a nearly fifty year-old woman and her sociopathic route to protecting her child (because I think we all know that when someone goes to that kind of sick length, it is more about their own pathos than that of their child)? Or is it the dangers of trying to find love on the internet, the perils of being an overweight teenage girl or my rant on how easily people – especially children - are “diagnosed” with depression these days and how I feel that to tell someone in that state that they are clinically so is basically condemning them to a life of excusing sullenness on their “condition”?
I’ll start here…
There are a million and one misconceptions I have uncovered in my life and there are bound to be at least that many more that I haven’t yet stumbled upon. One thing I know in the most intimate way is that just because a person is older, married, has children, a great job, a house or what-have-you, doesn’t mean they are a reasonable, rational human being. Sure, once upon a time the word “adult” denoted trustworthiness, wisdom, authority, responsibility. “If you are in trouble, find the nearest adult” was once a reasonable suggestion for a child who might become frightened. That is not to say it was always true and based on reason, but it was what a lot of people in my generation were raised to believe; that most adults were protective, wise and caring and the only ones to be scared of were the ones who wanted to get you into their car and give you candy. My mother was a perfect example of how wrong that assumption can be. Nobody on Earth has filled me with more lies, more misguided notions of the world and it’s workings than she did and it wasn’t out of some cruel design. She was mentally damaged, selfish and ignorant (among other things) and a like a lot of “adults” she believed that because she had all the trappings of authority, that she must be right. Then I was reminded of how many adults I had known in my childhood who had a profoundly negative influence on my life and it is clear that she wasn’t alone. (side note: I can remember watching a film in my grade school cafeteria/auditorium about how some man might want to lure me into his car with candy and how I was supposed to run away, and distinctly recall wondering if my mother had put the school up to it because she had me on diets from the time I was four).
I’m not going to sit here and tell you that a 48 year-old has no way of knowing what kind of damage she can do to a 13 year-old girl’s psyche. But I am going to tell you that to expect her to know the correct way to approach a child about her concerns for her daughter are dangerously flawed. To believe that is to assume that she has no ulterior motive, no deep-seated mental illness that this incident brought forth, and more importantly, that she is a mature enough, deep enough, well-rounded enough human being to have the tools to deal with something like this on the higher ground. How many people do you know that can do that? How many of them are someone you would trust to speak to your child about anything of importance (whether you have a child or not)? My God, adults have a hard enough time getting along with one another! I still have an adult out there who attempts to wage wars with me and slander me over the internet that I have not so much as sassed in over fifteen years. So how do we expect people, just because they are older, to know how to deal?
The thing is, this woman is not blameless because she is not a well developed, well-rounded human. She is responsible for the death of the girl. And I’ll tell you why…
She conversed with this Megan, a 13 year old, overweight girl looking for love. Megan was lovely, too; gorgeous eyes, sweet smile (braces or not). But of course, that wasn’t enough for some reason (be it social alienation, her mother, the media or whatever oppressive influence made her feel like she was not good enough). And this woman, this busybody mother, emailed back and forth with such a girl in MySpace. So she had to have had intimate details of how lonely, alienated, sad and desperate for romantic acceptance Megan must have been through that correspondence. There could be no doubt in her mind that she was going to devastate the girl when she turned on her, started calling her names and ultimately crushed her dreams of romance. Who doesn’t remember how much the loss of potential romantic connection makes you wish you were dead when you’re 13? Even so, she continued to torture this girl’s heart and soul. If that doesn’t imply sickness, honey I don’t know what does. She is guilty of torture, no matter what excuse she conjures in her defense. But murder? I can’t say.
See, I was tortured myself when I was younger. I was overweight, and not nearly as lovely (I was being informed regularly by my mother that I was a troll because I wasn’t skinny and popular, so much so that I believed it until I was well into my late 20s, and it showed on the outside). Boys played with my heart for fun, adults made hideous, hurtful comments and not one of them gave another thought as to the damage they might inflict. While I often wished for death, I was too strong or too scared to do it myself. I would find a reason to go on living. Even if it was something as trivial as knowing that I would get to go to Disneyland in two years, or foolishly believed my mother’s empty promises of braces for my teeth or a new bike. I refused to give up that easily. I refused to die. And so to that end, I imagine that Megan must have been far less driven than I was at her age to see how being a grown-up would be. She did, after all, choose how to resolve her pain. She chose death on her own.
Not everyone can suffer through the kind of agony she must have been feeling. I’m still shocked and pleasantly surprised that I did. And when I was well into my thirties a forty year-old friend said to me, “I’ve not heard half of the things that happened to you when you were a kid and I know that if I had been in your shoes, I wouldn’t have made it.” I was shocked and bewildered by that statement from a strong, independent woman. That was the first time I knew that not everyone had the same reserve of determination to go on. Now, I don’t expect it so easily in others. But I don’t know that many people who put enough thought into… well… anything, to know the effect they will have on another’s life and certainly not when it comes to their agenda. So I don’t believe for a moment that the over-zealous mother had any intention to see Megan die over her imagined smack-talking. If she wanted the girl dead, she would have killed her.
I feel for Megan’s parents. They must wonder if there is anything more they could have done, if they could have somehow foiled their neighbor’s plan or proved that Josh Evans was a hoax and saved their beautiful little girl. To my mind, there isn’t a whole lot they could have done. The mother seemed to have her eye on things and it still went out of control. But does the father wonder what he might have done? Maybe if fathers were more involved in their daughters’, they would be able to spare them the endless wondering of why boys do what they do. Maybe Megan’s father would have known that his daughter wasn’t actually talking to a boy at all. Who knows? But you have to admit… it wouldn’t have hurt. It’s nice to see at least one dad is paying attention.
*If you don’t know who Kevin Smith is, you have clearly been living in a cave and have never seen or heard of such cult classics as Clerks, Chasing Amy and Dogma. If you have, indeed, been cave dwelling for the past 15 or so years, go here to see out what he’s all about.
Monday, November 26, 2007
It is the Season
So it's been a while. Since May, from what I can tell. And luckily I lost all my previous posts when trying to do a little blog tidying so it's basically back to ground zero. Let's start with what's on my mind today, shall we?
My title implies that perhaps it is the holidays burning in my noggin today, but nothing could be further from the truth. That which is taking up my thoughts of late is that my friends and I have reached that time of our lives when we are due for a shake up (or a shake down as Danny Elfman might suggest). All I know is, outrageous things are going to happen to us and there is no stopping that freight train no matter how we react.
Death is right at the top of the change list. I don't know if I'm a cold-hearted guttersnipe or have simply managed to rationalize death, but I feel prepared for the fact that both of my parents are at death's door. Certainly, I hadn't expected to be so detached from that process, but that is where I am. My family has never, ever been good at pulling together for anything. To have believed that death would have done so was, in retrospect, an entirely foolish outlook. Sadly, I am learning my family is not alone in this behavior.
Several of my friends have lost loved ones over the last year. Really, it's alarming when I think about it. It got to a point where every time I answered my phone, it was to receive news of a mother or father or in-laws or siblings that had died. Being the empath that I am, that started to take a huge toll on my heart. I love my friends so much. Knowing they are in pain causes me pain. That's how I roll. And I couldn't keep going that way, so I started to look at what was happening from another perspective.
Cold as this may sound (and I know it will), we are at that point in our lives when parents are starting to depart our lives. We are all, now, at a place where many of our career choices no longer fit who we are, or have changed so drastically in the scope of our chosen fields, that we find ourselves careening into the land of the obsolete. Many of us believed with all our imaginations that we would be living in a house we own, all married, all raising children, all firmly ensconced in a job from which (if we played our cards right) we would retire. But for many of us those paths haven't quite presented themselves. Some have a couple of those trappings of adulthood, some seem to be nowhere near. Some are happy with how things have turned out, some are not. Still, no matter how you slice it, many of us thirty and fortysomethings are being faced with a landslide of changes seemingly none of us were prepared for.
The job market, I think, has been even harder for most of us to face. I think of my best friend who has been at the same company for more of the span of our 22 year friendship than she hasn't and am astounded at her ability to roll with whatever adjustments have needed to be made in order to enjoy such longevity. While she tends to bemoan her princess-of-nice facade, and the requisite expectations of singular dimensionality, I suspect that niceness has bought her a free pass to not having to be out there figuring out what the hell to do next. That and, perhaps, a less than exaggerated sense of adventure, but who could really blame her? Security has it's benefits.
Many of my friends, these days, have Entertainment Industry related jobs or careers (and there is a BIG difference between the two). For those of us who had "jobs" we find ourselves finally relenting to being too old to be considered maliable and cheap by those in the hiring position. For those of us with "careers" we are faced with the ever mutating and dwindling options the industry has to offer these days. Try as we might to roll with those changes, there is a constant wave of fresh, eager kids who can and will take less money, no benefits, and have no problem being treated with practically no respect in order to get their foot in the door. Those of us who have been there, are less apt to take half-witted orders from kids ten years younger and do so with anything that passes for a genuine smile on our face. We know what we're doing and we know how to do it well and that makes us a liability, it makes us expensive and it makes us less marketable. If you're not in a position of power in this industry, or on the inside with someone who is, being a thirtysomething still at the bottom means you are most likely done. For those who are still going, still trying and still succeeding, you have my most fervent respect. For myself, I cannot rely on the willynilly industry any more. Time to start taking some action.
Home. That one bites a few of us hard. Practically every person I am close to rents. And they probably will for a good long time, if not forever. The idea of my somehow amassing 500K to move into a tiny condo with no lawn, no patio, no separation between me and my neighbor whatsoever, is mind-boggling. I have been envious of those who have been lucky enough to live in a house for any length of time (rented or not). For my part, I have finally given in to the expense of living alone and will be moving in with a friend to share a condo. The ceilings are so low I can literally reach up and touch them. My room is so tiny that I don't think I could fit a queen bed and a dresser even if i had both those things. My bathroom is big enough, but once my cat's litterbox and food is in there, it won't be. But I will be saving $500 a month, I will finally have a parking space, I will finally have a dishwasher and laundry in the unit. That is as close to being in more of a "home" arrangement than I've had in about 12 years. Still I'm so resistant to losing my privacy and autonomy, right now, that I should be packing instead of writing.
I guess my point is to say this... life may not have turned out to be what we thought it would, despite our best efforts to get what we wanted. But one thing is for certain, we are at the time of our lives when all of these changes, disappointments, questions, upheavals and even deaths are supposed to happen. We are right on course. And hopefully, once we pass this phase, we will find ourselves in a place where, at long last, we can rest for a change. We can stop struggling, have what we have and enjoy it. I'm working on that. How about you?
My title implies that perhaps it is the holidays burning in my noggin today, but nothing could be further from the truth. That which is taking up my thoughts of late is that my friends and I have reached that time of our lives when we are due for a shake up (or a shake down as Danny Elfman might suggest). All I know is, outrageous things are going to happen to us and there is no stopping that freight train no matter how we react.
Death is right at the top of the change list. I don't know if I'm a cold-hearted guttersnipe or have simply managed to rationalize death, but I feel prepared for the fact that both of my parents are at death's door. Certainly, I hadn't expected to be so detached from that process, but that is where I am. My family has never, ever been good at pulling together for anything. To have believed that death would have done so was, in retrospect, an entirely foolish outlook. Sadly, I am learning my family is not alone in this behavior.
Several of my friends have lost loved ones over the last year. Really, it's alarming when I think about it. It got to a point where every time I answered my phone, it was to receive news of a mother or father or in-laws or siblings that had died. Being the empath that I am, that started to take a huge toll on my heart. I love my friends so much. Knowing they are in pain causes me pain. That's how I roll. And I couldn't keep going that way, so I started to look at what was happening from another perspective.
Cold as this may sound (and I know it will), we are at that point in our lives when parents are starting to depart our lives. We are all, now, at a place where many of our career choices no longer fit who we are, or have changed so drastically in the scope of our chosen fields, that we find ourselves careening into the land of the obsolete. Many of us believed with all our imaginations that we would be living in a house we own, all married, all raising children, all firmly ensconced in a job from which (if we played our cards right) we would retire. But for many of us those paths haven't quite presented themselves. Some have a couple of those trappings of adulthood, some seem to be nowhere near. Some are happy with how things have turned out, some are not. Still, no matter how you slice it, many of us thirty and fortysomethings are being faced with a landslide of changes seemingly none of us were prepared for.
The job market, I think, has been even harder for most of us to face. I think of my best friend who has been at the same company for more of the span of our 22 year friendship than she hasn't and am astounded at her ability to roll with whatever adjustments have needed to be made in order to enjoy such longevity. While she tends to bemoan her princess-of-nice facade, and the requisite expectations of singular dimensionality, I suspect that niceness has bought her a free pass to not having to be out there figuring out what the hell to do next. That and, perhaps, a less than exaggerated sense of adventure, but who could really blame her? Security has it's benefits.
Many of my friends, these days, have Entertainment Industry related jobs or careers (and there is a BIG difference between the two). For those of us who had "jobs" we find ourselves finally relenting to being too old to be considered maliable and cheap by those in the hiring position. For those of us with "careers" we are faced with the ever mutating and dwindling options the industry has to offer these days. Try as we might to roll with those changes, there is a constant wave of fresh, eager kids who can and will take less money, no benefits, and have no problem being treated with practically no respect in order to get their foot in the door. Those of us who have been there, are less apt to take half-witted orders from kids ten years younger and do so with anything that passes for a genuine smile on our face. We know what we're doing and we know how to do it well and that makes us a liability, it makes us expensive and it makes us less marketable. If you're not in a position of power in this industry, or on the inside with someone who is, being a thirtysomething still at the bottom means you are most likely done. For those who are still going, still trying and still succeeding, you have my most fervent respect. For myself, I cannot rely on the willynilly industry any more. Time to start taking some action.
Home. That one bites a few of us hard. Practically every person I am close to rents. And they probably will for a good long time, if not forever. The idea of my somehow amassing 500K to move into a tiny condo with no lawn, no patio, no separation between me and my neighbor whatsoever, is mind-boggling. I have been envious of those who have been lucky enough to live in a house for any length of time (rented or not). For my part, I have finally given in to the expense of living alone and will be moving in with a friend to share a condo. The ceilings are so low I can literally reach up and touch them. My room is so tiny that I don't think I could fit a queen bed and a dresser even if i had both those things. My bathroom is big enough, but once my cat's litterbox and food is in there, it won't be. But I will be saving $500 a month, I will finally have a parking space, I will finally have a dishwasher and laundry in the unit. That is as close to being in more of a "home" arrangement than I've had in about 12 years. Still I'm so resistant to losing my privacy and autonomy, right now, that I should be packing instead of writing.
I guess my point is to say this... life may not have turned out to be what we thought it would, despite our best efforts to get what we wanted. But one thing is for certain, we are at the time of our lives when all of these changes, disappointments, questions, upheavals and even deaths are supposed to happen. We are right on course. And hopefully, once we pass this phase, we will find ourselves in a place where, at long last, we can rest for a change. We can stop struggling, have what we have and enjoy it. I'm working on that. How about you?
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Oops!!!
I accidentally deleted my blog! I meant to delete my weight loss blog (for the sole reason that it was not doing what I had intended and therefore... decided to stop flogging the dead horse!).
Nonnoonoooo I haven't decided to give up losing weight, silly. Please. I like being able to walk!
So this will blog will go back to my epic articles. And other blogs will follow. Stay tuned.
Nonnoonoooo I haven't decided to give up losing weight, silly. Please. I like being able to walk!
So this will blog will go back to my epic articles. And other blogs will follow. Stay tuned.
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