Me First

When I wrote Fuckit at the end of last year, I had no idea what it really meant.  I knew that I was tired.  I knew that I was angry.  I knew that I was sad.  Mostly I knew that I was tired of being angry and sad.  So, while I was writing the blog post, I started thinking about all of the things that made me feel out of control.  I wrote down everything that had happened to me or that I had seen and wanted to control, but couldn't.  I just couldn't.  So I wrote it all down, put it in a bucket, doused it with lighter fluid and burned that shit in the middle of the street at 12:01 on New Year's day.

That's kind of a long prelude to my point, but it will have relevance later.  At least I hope it will.  When I wrote Fuckit, I had been through a year of shit.  Not just a year.  A lot of years.  Probably five or six.  Maybe, more accurately, closer to 35 years.  But I was at the end of it all.  I knew I was and I looked to a lot of different people to validate my thoughts and my feelings.  And out of nowhere, there were people validating my thoughts and feelings.  Likely, those people were there the whole time, but I never saw them until I was ready to see it.

You might wonder what that means.  Being "validated".  It means that enough of the meaningful people around me saw how much I had been giving to others' ideas, to misguided intentions, to absentee friends and lovers.  They saw that I was ready to let it all go.  That I FINALLY needed to give some of it back.  To myself.

In those very volatile days at the end of December, I found a lot of signs that pointed me back towards me.  I realize that sounds as vague as "validation" sounds.  But there were people there.  Reminding me that I have been investing too much in everything around me.  Not the important things either.  I had been investing in the things that I have NO FUCKING CONTROL OVER.  Things like other people and their shitty outlooks.  Things like people who don't take responsibility for their actions.  Things like people who are awful because they don't get laid enough.  I have no control over those things, but because I have a vibrator and a big heart, I thought I could own it all.  All of it.

I had no idea how exhausting it was to try to own everything, until I could barely get out of bed in the morning.  When it's in your nature to take care of others, it's really hard to find a way to take care of yourself.  It's really hard to put yourself first.  It isn't natural.  It feels selfish and awkward.  When you are a caretaker and an advocate for everyone else, you forget that you need care and advocacy too.  So much so that it feels like charity when someone cuts you some slack.

Anyway, back to the fuckit bucket.  I waited until the New Year to burn it because that was my way of pissing on 2014.  That year didn't get the privilege of seeing me set it's bullshit on fire.  It was also exerting my dominance on 2015.  Kind of like I was saying "Look bitch.  See what I did to the last year?  You better be nice."  It probably seems crazy.  Like Girl Interrupted crazy.  But it was the final move in a four year mind fucking game with myself.  It was my way of finally taking control of what I could control:  me.

Me first.

-Inner Peas

Locks

In July of 2001, I bought the first new car I had ever owned.  It was a Saturn.  Blue. SC2.  Five speed. Moon roof.  Had that 3^rd door on the driver’s side.  6-disc changer.  Remember those?  Pretty bad ass back in 2001.  One thing it didn’t have, was those automatic door locking feature that cars have now.  The one that locks all the car doors when you go over 5 MPH.  That cute little Saturn coupe didn’t have that. 

Anyway, a couple of weeks after I bought that car, I was in Oakland getting a burrito for dinner.  My boyfriend at the time was driving and I was sitting in the passenger seat.  While stopped at a red light, I was day dreaming out the window, not paying much attention to anything except getting home to my carne asada deliciousness and new car smell.  It was in that minute that I was shaken from the simplicity of my childlike thoughts by the sunken face of a skinny woman at my window.  I saw her face just inches away from my own.  She was screaming at me, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying.  All of a sudden, she wrenched the car door open.  I screamed at her “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!!!”  I grabbed the handle on the door with both hands and pulled the door with all the strength I had and I howled to my boyfriend “FUCKING GO!!!  GO!!!!!”

The two mile drive home, I could feel my heart beating in every part of my body.  I could tell he was shaken, too.  We sat in silence until we finally pulled in the driveway, I just looked at him and whispered “Did that just happen?  Did that really happen?”  In my mind, I had been violated.  I just couldn’t believe that at a stoplight on Webster, somebody came at me; into my space.  My safe place.  It was a Saturn, not a Benz. 

After that day, I remember getting in the car and locking the doors before I even put it in reverse.  Every time I made the trip through the Webster Tube from Alameda to Oakland, I became hyper vigilant. I paid attention to everything around me.   I used the shortest route to get out of Oakland.  I was afraid.  It was a very scary time.  It wasn’t the first time that my naïve ideas of safety had been disrupted. 

There was that time in Bellingham, when I took out the trash.  I was gone about two minutes.  When I came back in the house, I finished the dishes and went up to my bedroom only to find a man in my bedroom.  A man who cornered me and could see the terror in my eyes.  When he saw how scared I was, he laughed and told me “you should be more afraid of me.”  And he proved it. 

After that night, I didn’t ever want to leave the house.  More accurately, I didn’t ever want to be at the house.   I only took the trash out when I left for work.  I spent as much time at work as I could.  If I was at home, I tried to not be alone there.  I think it goes without saying that I locked all of the doors.  All of the time.  Because clearly, locking doors keeps you safe. 

But then I remember that time in High School, when I walked out to my Karmann Ghia in the driveway on a Sunday morning and noticed glass all over the ground and found the CD player stolen.  The doors of the car weren’t even locked.  There was no reason to break a window for a stereo in a car that wasn’t locked.  I cried.  I screamed in the street because I knew exactly who had done it.  My stepdad had to physically carry me inside while I kicked and screamed profanities at the assholes who had raped my innocence.  Not locking the doors didn’t do anything for me then. 

I’ll be honest, I haven’t locked the doors to my house or car in 12 years.  I have been considering it recently.  I am not comfortable with that, though.  Because I am not a victim.  It has happened before and I don’t ever want to feel that way again…So, locks sometimes sound like a good idea.  But locks don’t protect you from bad things happening.  I am NOT going let violations of my space or my property dictate how I live my life.  I will NOT be the girl who never feels safe.  I’m the girl who believes that if you have to lock your doors, you aren’t locking the bad guys out.  You are locking yourself in. 

P.S.  I’ll fuck you up if you try to come in my house uninvited.  Locks or no. But I'm not going to stop living my life.  

-Inner Peas

The Ledge

Today, on a way to a meeting, I met up with a guy.  Not just any guy.  I met up with the Command Master Chief.  As we started walking together, he gave the courtesy “How are you doing, Angela.”  All I could do was laugh.  More laughter than was probably appropriate for the three minutes of casual conversation that would accompany the short walk from the clinic to the club.  Finally, when I saw how uncomfortable he was with my lack of response, I said “I’m working on it.”  We kept walking.  We kept talking.  About the places we had been and the people we knew.  He kept looking at the ground as if the initial laughter still made him uncomfortable.  Of course, I was wearing a pair of pretty bangin’ new kicks.  So he could have been just been admiring my shoes.  That shit happens.  A lot.  But usually after I demand that people admire them.  This was different, though. 

It was the final steps that we walked in near silence, that I realized how tired I am of people asking me how I am doing.  Because if you ask me how I’m doing, I feel obligated to tell you.  And in recent years, I haven’t been doing that well.  In recent months, I have been trying really hard to be doing better.  But that only seems to have made it worse. 

So, when people ask me how I am doing, I want to be able to tell them “Hey.  I’m doing great!!!”  And I want them to look at me with disbelief and question it.  I want to tell them “YES!!!  I am doing AHHHMAZING!!!  I woke up this morning and picked fresh berries to in the homemade granola I made for Radley.”  I want them to look at me with envy and say “Wow, Ang.  You made granola?  And picked fresh berries?”  In my mind, I look back at them, innocently, and respond “I did.  Isn’t that what good parents do?” 

When people ask me how I am doing, I want to say “Sooo good!”  And not like I say it to Pedro when he asks me first think in the morning how I am doing.  I want to tell someone that I am doing “sooo good!” and actually mean it.  Not like “oh I am sooo good because I still have a house even though I am in forbearance on my student loans and gas is a lot cheaper than it was so I guess I’m grateful that my landlord only raised the rent $50 a month this year even though I make less than I did in 2010.”  No.  That’s not what I want to mean when I tell people I am “SOOO GOOD!!!” 

When people ask me how I am doing, I want to say “FUCKING AMAZING.”  And I want that to make them uncomfortable.  Then, I want them to ask me why I am doing so fucking amazing.  To which I would respond by saying “Because I am having the best sex of my life and I deserve it.”  That would silence the critics.  That would make them look at my shoes.  That would make a statement. Except it wouldn’t.  Because then they all know me well enough to know that good sex only comes in the form of a vibrator.  Then, they would laugh and hand me some more batteries.  And with all the bad sex that I have had, nobody would believe me if I told them I actually was. 

When people ask me how I am doing, I want to shine; I want to glow.  I don’t’ ever get to do that, though.  Because I don’t have time to make granola and the berries are dead.  Because it’s January.  I haven’t had the opportunity to pay the electric bill and my student loan payment in the same month in years.  Good sex only comes with batteries included or emotional detachment.  So, when you ask me how I am doing, what I really want to say is “I’m good.  You know.  Because I fight with my kid every day and I have a hard time paying my bills and I’m lucky that I can afford batteries.” 

I can either laugh or cry.  In the off chance that I get to be honest and tell people that I am on the ledge, I have to wonder if should have shared the darkest parts of myself.  Fortunately, when I share my failures and my demons, I have the grace of amazing women to remind me “We won’t let you let go.  We won’t let you fall.” 

-Inner Peas

Start Living

While I was suffering the emotional tsunami that was the month of December, and for that matter, the second half of 2014, I started fantasizing about what 2015 might be.  Not big dreams or anything.  More like just being able to let go of the shit storm that the past year had been.  But they were dreams all the same.

I basically shut down sometime around the beginning of fall.  I started counting down the days to January 1 back in October.  I refused to cook a turkey at either holiday.  Because turkeys are a lot of work and fuck you anxiety.  I muddled my way from the beginning of December until the 14^th when Radley’s birthday party was only a memory.  I held my breath until December 25^th.  When I finally took the trash out on Christmas day, I exhaled slowly.  I felt a relief that I don’t remember feeling in what seemed like several lifetimes.  Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.   I was suddenly horrified when I realized that I only had eleven months to recover until the next holiday season. 

Somehow though, I managed to get out of bed on Monday morning and go to work.  I only had to suffer through three more days of the mental punishment and emotional disaster that was 2014.  I went to work on Monday.  Made it.  It even proved functional and productive.  I woke up again the next day did the same thing.  Fucking kudos to me.  But something was different about that day.  As I sat doing what I do, I had a feeling of ambivalence rush over me.  For a few minutes, I questioned myself; my purpose.  It’s a feeling that I have become very familiar with over the last several years.  For the first time though, I realized I didn’t like it.  It wasn’t just sad and uncomfortable anymore.  It was a burden. 

I looked at the clock.  Almost lunchtime.  I did a quick scan for who was logged into their computers.  I didn’t know where I needed to go or who I needed to see, I just knew that I had to go somewhere and see someone.  All of my go-tos were gone.  So, I got in the car and drove down the hill until I found an empty parking spot.  Turns out, the first spot I found was really close to the fourth floor of the Juliet Nichols Building. 

I parked.  Walked in the third floor entrance.  Climbed the stairs to the fourth deck, where, sure as shit, I found people.  Not just any people.   Real people.  Good people.  People not wearing uniforms, but you know, it was December 30^th, so whatever.  There were people there.  People I had no idea that I needed so badly. 

The first stop I made was into the office of a friend who had just suffered the loss of a child in his family.  I walked in and hugged him and asked if everything was “OK?”  The question mark is appropriate.  Because when a family loses a child, nobody is OK.  He was silent at first and I kept waiting for him to respond.  Then out of nowhere, this precious, blond, seven year old with a tablet was hugging my waist and taking pictures of me with her new Christmas gift. As I entertained her by posing, she said “Don’t worry, when I’m done with these pictures, you won’t look anything like you do now.”  I looked at Andy, eyebrow raised.  He said “Don’t worry, she said that you look like you are 30.”  Aw…I love her the most. 

Just when I thought that I had done everything I needed to do was done, I walked out of Andy’s office, looking down.  While I was so overwhelmed love, good spirit and the sweet lies of a seven year old, I walked right into another dear friend.  Neither of us paying attention to where we were going, I heard him grumble something about the power in the building.  I backed up into Andy’s office, I hugged Tim, as he hollered over my shoulder “Call facilities.  I’m tired of the power tripping.”  Funny enough, he wasn’t talking about the power trips.  He was talking about the breaks in electricity that made the lights flicker in the building. 

I walked passed him again, heading back to the stairs, and said “You’re an electrician.  Fix that shit.”  He looked at me like I was a stranger and said “I don’t fix things anymore.  I fix people now.”  I rolled my eyes just enough to be funny and turned to go.  From over my shoulder, I heard “Why don’t you stop by for a minute?”

Some people I can make excuses with.  Tim isn’t one of those people.  In fact, he’s not even one of those people that I want to make excuses with.  So, I just followed him back to his office.  Before I even sat down, I had tears in my eyes.  I reached for a Kleenex, and he laughed…”Yeah, I keep a couple boxes in here.”  In my mind, I was thinking “Fuck you, brother. I don’t cry on command. I was crying before I walked in the door.”  Jerk.  That’ll teach him to expect when I cry. 

Anyway, I sat down and he asked me about what had been going on, as if he didn’t know.  He realized it was a stupid question, because he knew exactly what had been going on.  I finally said “I’m going to burn it all, Tim.  All of the hurt.  All of the defeat.  All of the bullshit.  I’m going to burn it.”  I’ll be quite honest, I expected him to look at me and say “FINALY!!!  You are going to let it all go.  FINALLY!!!”  That’s what I expected. 

When he finally spoke, it wasn’t the encouragement that I had expected.  It wasn’t the pep rally I had envisioned.  It wasn’t even a “Hey, good onya, sister!”  He looked me dead in the face and said “So, you have a bucket of shit that you want to burn.  Why don’t you have a barrel filled with everything you have done right?” 

I looked at him like he was crazy.  I was so mad that he didn’t acknowledge what a fucking monumental step it was for me to just let go of my demons that I almost walked right out of his office.  But he calmed me down.  He asked me a very simple question.  He stared me down and said “What have you done right?”  I was uncomfortable.   Finally I said “I have a job and I support my son.” 

I think those are pretty admirable qualities.  But Tim saw that even something as simple as those two things made me uncomfortable.  So, he followed my gaze out the window in his office.  “He said is there something outside that you are proud of?”  No.  Not at all.  I’d just rather look outside than look at you right now.  I can’t remember if I actually said that or was just entertaining my inner monologue.  Either way, he got where I was and said “You can tell me two things that you have done that make you worthwhile.  I have known you for three years and I can tell you twelve, off the cusp.  Probably a dozen more if I could think about it more.  Why don’t you start living, and not just surviving?” 

No words.  Again.  Nothing.  I.  HAD.  NOTHING.  We hugged.  I said thank you a bunch of times.  I left.  I made my way down the stairs, real cautious.  Because you need to be careful when you wear high heels and descend a stair case.  It’s just prudent.  But when I got to the car.  I sat there for a few minutes and thought “what the fuck was that?  Isn’t living surviving?” 

But it’s not.  You either live or you survive.  That eve of New Year’s Eve, I was reminded that living and surviving are NOT the same. 

-Inner Peas