Archive for the 'tmi' category

January 20th, 2012

» bs

Things that are bullshit:

  • Being unable to fall asleep.
  • Waking up at 4 am, convinced you’ve slept past the alarm.
  • Waking up again at 5:15.
  • Being fine and happy and yourself one moment, and then having this alien thing wrap its hands around your throat and over your mouth, and just hijack you. Shove You casually aside. Waltz in and start rummaging with your thoughts and your ability to breathe and your total lack of desire to cry. It’s a huge, dark, suffocating presence that insists You are unlovable, and you will die fat and alone, eaten by Alsatians (thanks, Bridget Jones). It reminds you of every mean, careless thing anyone has ever said to you, parades them out as fact. Spins out the story of your worthlessness and future sorrow.

It’s the birth control, I know in these moments, in the part of me that is still me. I watch it happen from that detached place, a little fascinated and no little frustrated. Bewildered. Impatient. Helpless. I, the real me, am happy. I am ready to sleep, to smile, to breathe evenly, to unclench my jaw and tumble into some bright dream. Instead I am crying, like some strange reflex, some alien unstoppable process of the body. Crying the way your leg swings when your knee is tapped, the way you flinch away from something coming at your eye, the way the heart pushes blood. I don’t want them, don’t feel them, but the tears keep pouring out anyhow, and this weird other thing stews in a deaf knot of anxiety and fear. It cannot be reasoned with and will not be sent away. The only thing to do is wait it out.

It’s all especially crazy because I am good! I am happy, and loving life, and even loving winter. Last weekend Eric and I went to the Red Bull Crashed Ice event in St. Paul. It was by the Cathedral, a few miles from his house; we walked down there in the grey cold late afternoon to meet friends for dinner, then went over to the enormous track they’d built for the skaters. A long narrow ribbon of ice, looping down over the Cathedral steps, all turns and drops and lights and crazy hills. We stood outside watching for hours, and by the end I could not stop shivering and couldn’t feel my feet, but I also couldn’t stop smiling. Life, even cold and slick and forbidding, is so good.

August 22nd, 2011


New relationships are a funny, delicate thing. I’ve been thinking about them a lot lately, that strange sort of dance you do, the meaning imbued in the most casual gestures. I can’t shake all the cliched images: tightropes, tender blossoms, cupping something warm and alive and fragile in your hands. Everything is acute, heightened.

My roommate and I were talking about it a couple weeks ago, that kind of mania that comes over you, the dizzying swings between paranoia and exhilaration. The fleeting moments you’re able to step back and recognize that you are perhaps being a little insecure and crazy — and that your friends probably deserve nomination for sainthood for listening to yet another ecstatic, gushing account, and for their thousandth reassurance.

I started writing this almost a month ago, actually, and got stuck. Unsure what I was trying to say, exactly, but wanting to say it anyway. Wanting to be able to remember later how this feels, how whirling and gut-wrenching and wonderful.

Stuck also on the fear of jinxing it. It’s a little strange, this impulse toward privacy in our joy. The worry that as soon as we name a happiness it will vanish. But things change; that’s how they work. That’s life. And right now, life feels impossibly big and beautiful, and there’s no reason not to celebrate that. I wake every morning smiling. I can’t stop dancing in my car, swimming my fingers through the slipstream of air out the window. I daydream constantly. I revel in my luck. I am absurdly happy.

June 14th, 2011

» never not broken

Recently a friend shared a link to this article, and it really resonated with me. It’s called “Why Lying Broken in a Pile on Your Bedroom Floor is a Good Idea,” and talks about how “there is a goddess from Hindu mythology that teaches us that, in this moment, in this pile on the floor, you are more powerful than you’ve ever been.”

It says beautifully some of what I’ve been feeling lately: fractured, throwing light. If you can find the vigor in your sadness, channel your despair, you can break yourself apart with it in this crazy, exhilarating way. You’re not just invited to remake yourself: you’re forced.

Every time you step out of yourself makes the next time easier. Every time you are someone else, you change. I find myself caring less & less (about expectations, about “should”, about what is safe and smart and known) and dreaming bigger. The worst that could happen doesn’t seem so bad any more. This crocodile, this fear and uncertainty, will spin you out into something big and bright and beautiful, or it will devour you. Either way, it’s a hell of a ride.

April 21st, 2011

» Bali: Mon 29 Nov 2010

We wake early Monday morning sick. It hits Joe a couple hours before me, but soon we’re both miserable, taking turns in the bathroom and curled up on the bed. We’ve pre-arranged for Wayan, our favorite driver, to pick us up at 10 a.m. We stagger through the rest of our packing before then and I try, unsuccessfully, to make myself throw up before the long drive to Amed.

The next three and a half hours are a grueling trial. The road winds back up out of the mountain crater, then down and around the foothills. We ask Wayan to detour to Amlapurah so we can stop by an ATM (it has the only international ATMs on this side of the island) and the pharmacy (apotek). He is a wonderful driver — it could have been much worse with someone peeling around the many corners or too timid to overtake slow vehicles.

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April 18th, 2011

» Bali: Interlude (a spoiler)

So. Clearly I’ve fallen far behind on the Bali entries. I really wanted to be done with it months ago; I had a lot of enthusiasm for it, but all of the photo choosing and editing sort of ground me down, and then packing and moving, and then — .

I haven’t known how to talk about it, really. If to talk about it. I go back and forth about why I write here, what I should write here. Cautious of the future, not wanting to regret saying too much. Exposing too much. And at the same time this is my space for remembering life, good & bad, and for exorcising what I’m feeling. Lately I have been drawn strongly to people’s stories of their own loss and pain. I have been desperate to know how other people deal with it, how they’ve lived through it. How to go on. Searching for some assurance that there is happy again somewhere on the other side. Other people’s brutal honesty, their willingness to share living through the bad times, has been a balm to me. So maybe talking about it will pass that gift on to someone else.

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