A Letter to A New Friend

I care about you deeply. You are important to me because you are a good person, underneath it all. Underneath the needless apologies and automatic defenses; behind the walls you’ve erected to protect yourself from the people around you, you have a heart of gold and all you really want to do is help people. I resonate with that.

            All I’ve ever wanted to do—short of being an artist—is help people. Part of the reason for me to get a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology is because I want to help people; what better degree to pursue for such an endeavor? Naturally, I want to help you. The thing is, I’m not even sure you realize you’re damaged; or, perhaps you do, but you don’t know how to accept constructive criticism from another person because all you’ve experienced have been negative people who have nothing nice to say.

            You’re not trying to be mean. I can accept that and appreciate it. What I think you don’t realize is how you sound to those around you even when you think you’re being “just fine”. Your voice is so sharp—as sharp as the nose on your face, as sharp as your very chin, so is your voice—and when something comes unbidden from your mouth in an environment you don’t prefer while you’re surrounded by generally undesirable people, your voice is sharp.

            Tone of voice means a lot in communication, my dear friend. The very sound of your voice when you say something—your inflections, as in, the way your voice rises and falls during speech—including the speed with which you talk and the words that come out of your mouth are all parts of the communication process. I don’t think very many people think of communication as a process; I think people think it consists only of what is said, rather than how.

            It is clear to me that you pay attention to what you say, friend. Many people do, when communicating. What I’m not sure you know is the meaning of your words. I’m not sure you know the true message you send with your body language, the words you actually say, and the tone of your voice.

            It’s different with me. When you’re with me, your tone is softer. But even when you’re with me, you’re so defensive of yourself, like you think your defenses must be up at all times and like you believe that the best defense is a good offense. God forbid you should ever offend anyone, though, so you preface many of the things you say—things that are hardly ever offensive by any nature—with “No offense.” None offense is taken and I feel like there is a larger underlying issue with you that perhaps you don’t recognize, where you feel the need to disclaim yourself before saying anything.

            Anything I say is met with, “No, I know, but—” something. Do you realize that you always say “No,” first? The first word out of your mouth when we are speaking is “No,” when I have something to say that isn’t a general nod, “mm-hmm,” or silence in listening. I might tell you that, while I understand your point of view, I think differently about the situation. The first word out of your mouth is, “No,” but I don’t think you even hear yourself say it. You hear yourself say the following “I know,” before you continue with your point and your endeavor to make me understand what you’re saying—which I do, dear friend. I do.

            I want to help you, friend. I want to help all of my friends, but I think the struggle for you is internal. Perhaps it is something only you can work on yourself and I am so glad that your goal for the year—if not beyond—is to help yourself. My hope for you, dear friend, is that you are also sincerely interested in personal growth. Perhaps there is something subconsciously that makes you speak the way you do or even act a certain way.

            I want you to remember that I love you. No matter how hard it gets for you, my love for you as a friend remains. Remember, too, that when everything is a joke, nothing is, and there is always truth in jest. I recognize your jokes as a method by which you wish to be understood and communicate your true thoughts to the outside world, but you’re so afraid of ridicule or backlash that it cannot be said in sincerity. Or, so you think.

            Where is your fear founded? What kind of terrible past have you endured to make you feel so insecure? Secure people speak sincerely and unapologetically, my friend, and you do not fit the bill except when you’re with me. Perhaps it is my sincerity that helps you to relax every so often and if that is the case, I want to move with it. I want to spend more time with you to help you feel sincerity and know it for yourself. I want to wrap you in security and make you realize that it’s okay to have your thoughts, your feelings, your opinions, and it’s okay to share them, but there is a time and a place for everything and there is always a good way to communicate a thought, even if there is no good way it can be received. Fear not, my friend, for I feel that most of what you could say would be received without judgment.

            I fear that your religion gets in the way. Perhaps it is what keeps you going and helps you see the light in life. Who am I to judge your feelings? Better that you tell them to me, in due time, as you will. Just remember, my friend: I love you.

An Unpolished Account from Kirkland to Hoquiam

In my life, I have decided to make a point of not talking badly about people behind their backs. It was driven home yesterday that not everyone shares such a desire to avoid gossip and bullshit. I learned yesterday that someone who used to be a “friend” is jealous of me and likes to talk shit about everyone around her.

            The conversation started innocently enough. Randy, my friend Kelly, her dog, my dog, Persephone, and I all met with another friend of mine in Kirkland, a place I’d never visited before. I was pleasantly impressed by what I saw of Kirkland, little as it was, and my friend, Kara, and I were sitting on the grass, she with her son and I with my dog, as Randy chased Persephone around the grass. I’m not sure why or how the conversation ended up on a Facebook group we’re in, but Kara mentioned the group, which I’ll call the Lounge, and asked me a question having to do with some other group members.

            “Some of the other ladies left the group,” she said. I hadn’t known anything about it, so I hmm’d and ha’d and nodded my head, furrowing my brow and mentioning my ignorance of the other, now former, group members’ activities. At the mention of other members of the group, though, I thought of someone who had been a mutual friend to Kara and me who goes by Nessa. Opportunity bloomed before my eyes for me to tell someone about how Nessa had suddenly, unexpectedly, and without a word to me, deleted me from her Facebook friends’ list. I didn’t feel that it was a great loss—Nessa had blatantly avoided my Halloween party last year, only to have the gall to invite me to her house when I’d expressed that no one was showing up to my party—but I hadn’t had anyone to tell about her having deleted me until just now, because I didn’t have anyone nearby who would have cared to hear about it in any capacity.

            “Nessa deleted me from Facebook,” I said, adding something before the sentence to segue into the topic. The reaction from Kara wasn’t quite what I’d expected, as she said: “She’s jealous of you.” Did I say that wasn’t quite what I’d expected? Let me correct that: It came as a complete surprise. My eyes widened and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

            Well, it was then that I learned that Nessa had been talking badly about me to Kara, who did nothing to add to it and simply tried to diffuse the situation when it came up (after all, she and I are friends and I’ve done nothing to incur either woman’s wrath), but of course I was filled with a burning curiosity to know what was said about me, behind my back, without my knowledge. Happily for me, Kara was happy enough to oblige and humor my curiosity.

            What I learned wasn’t necessarily very specific, but it was quite revealing. Before delving into the things Nessa had said about me—which were quite unimportant but satisfied my curiosity nonetheless—Kara mentioned that Nessa had betrayed her, and not slightly.

            The story is not mine to tell, but suffice to say that what Nessa did was a complete betrayal of trust with Kara and, as far as I’m concerned, was unforgivable. Kara is a more forgiving woman than I, however, and she did forgive Nessa for it—though she admitted to me that she shouldn’t have, based on the caliber of person Nessa has proven to be. Long story short, the betrayal had to do with an actual legal case that was going on and Nessa gave out information that she had specifically been forewarned not to give out. Her excuse when she apologized profusely was as follows: “I didn’t mean to.”

            She didn’t mean to? I don’t think so. Let’s spell out a scenario of similarity in order to shed some light onto my incredulity. Let’s say that Susie is my partner’s ex and she’s trying to keep half of my partner’s belongings because they used to be together, but my partner wants his belongings back, so he’s fighting for them using the legal system. I don’t want Susie to know anything about me because it could somehow jeopardize my partner getting his things back, so I tell my friend, who has become friends with Susie, that I don’t want Susie to know about me. I specifically tell my friend, Nessa (let’s at least keep that part consistent), “Please don’t tell Susie anything about me. I don’t want her to know my name, where I live, what I do for a living, or anything. Nothing. Please.” Nessa agrees, but the next thing I know, Nessa has told Susie every last thing she knows about me!

            I would never have forgiven Nessa.

            Hearing Kara’s story was infuriating. I was filled with a kind of righteous rage, that which drives me to exact vengeance on those who have wronged me or those close to me. I put it aside, however, as it’s not my battle and my friend had already forgiven her for the betrayal, whether it deserved forgiving or not. So, rather than getting into a rage and ranting about the injustice of it all, I mentioned my Halloween party—which led to my learning that Kara had planned to attend, with Nessa! Another surprise!

            This was when I learned that Nessa enjoys making plans with Kara and being the person who coordinates it all, with or without Kara’s knowledge but often with her involvement, only to then decide to cancel and leave the cancelling up to Kara, who beforehand hadn’t even known she’d be involved. It’s a shitty thing to do. Imagine if you and I were friends and I made plans that involved you, but didn’t tell you about them. You get a call from the person with whom I’ve made the plans: “Hey, are you still coming to my picnic?” You’re surprised: “What picnic? Was I going to something? What’s this about?” Suddenly, you become aware that I’ve signed you up for an event without your consent or knowledge. Then, on the day of the event, I say, “You know, I just want to stay home. Can you cancel? Also, can you find a bus back to your house since you don’t have a car and I don’t feel like driving even though I don’t have an issue with gas money because you’d help me with it if I would just give you a ride?” Essentially, that is what Nessa does to Kara.

            When Kara said she’d planned on coming to my party with Nessa, I was angry with the latter woman all over again. How dare she ignore my party completely, make plans with someone to actually attend, then cancel and follow up with the gall to invite me to her disgustingly filthy household to do what I could only assume would amount to sitting outside and smoking weed, because the interior of the house is revolting and also a health hazard…which brings me to my next point.

            Nessa was offended when I looked out for the health and well-being of a child at her home.

            Nessa is not a mother. She cannot understand motherly instinct and she clearly doesn’t respect one mother’s concern over another mother’s child. Nessa had requested help in cleaning her disgustingly filthy home, and I had volunteered because it had been my idea that she should conduct a cleaning party and get as much support as she could, so as to get it done and maybe make it fun. Another friend of mine helped, admittedly more than I did, but on the first day, I was there. So was another woman Nessa had invited.

            The other woman had a small child, perhaps 4 or 5 years old, if memory serves. The house was full of fumes from unchanged kitty litter and stagnant chicken shit in the floors. Unhealthy, respiratory-problem-causing fumes. So, looking out for the child, I suggested keeping her outside so as to prevent her getting sick. Kara told me that her son gets sick every time she takes him with her to visit Nessa’s home. Yet, Nessa took great offense to my concern, choosing to take it as some kind of slight against her. Ridiculous.

            It turns out, from the enlightenment I received from Kara, that Nessa seemed to decide she no longer liked me after I suggested keeping the child outside for health and safety reasons. I had no idea. Nessa never said how she felt while I was at her home, cleaning without safety equipment, nor did she send me a message over Facebook or a text message via phone to express her feelings over the matter. She did, however, feel comfortable with venting all about it to Kara, which turned out well for me because I get a much better idea of her character in addition to getting closure over the issue.

            I will have it known that I did not consider the loss of Nessa’s Facebook friendship to be a big loss. I looked at the “add friend” button on Nessa’s page and thought, “Well, that was unexpected.” That was about the end of it for me, until my good friend, Kara, enlightened me further.

            If anything, my conversation with Kara about Nessa made me feel better about myself and gave me closure to an issue that had vaguely confused me. Someone is jealous of me. What an ego boost! The only other person who has admitted to being jealous of me has done so to my face and it was my older brother, who has proven himself to be a real nigga capable of real talk, whereas this bitch can’t even tell me to my face how she feels. My older brother thinks I’m better than him—it’s not true, but it’s what he told me he thinks, to my face, because he has balls—while this bitch complains about me behind my back and talks about how “negative” I am when I post a meme.

            I compare Nessa to my older brother only because they’re both jealous of me. That is the only connection and the only reason I think about it is because, for the longest time, I thought my brother was a bitch-ass nigga. Ebonics may not be my first language, but I’ve become familiar with it and it is the most appropriate way to describe some things. This is one of those things. Hearing about Nessa made me realize that my brother isn’t nearly as lame as I thought he was and he does, in fact, have the intestinal fortitude to be a good man. I have so much more respect for him now than I did before the revelations of Kara.

            So, for my brother, Cristopher: If you’re reading this, I love you and you are important to me. I want to help you in any way I can to make your dreams come true.

A Letter to An Old Friend

Let me start with your husband. The man is a piece of white trash. I see the photos you post of him. I see him on his ass, his fat gut protruding from his unattractive body, his unattractive face stuck in some perpetual expression of apathetic lethargy. Sometimes, he contorts his hand for the camera; he’s showing off what I can only assume is some kind of gang sign. This, coming from a fat white guy, reminds me solely of my older brother, who once ran with a gang and continues to occasionally speak like he’s still part of that lifestyle. Not that I actually think he ever was. I’ve always thought he was all talk and no walk. But that’s another story.

            I loved you. I love you, still, in my memories. Do I love you now? I’m not sure anymore, if I’m completely honest, but honey, you will always have a special place in my heart and I will continue to look on your status updates with a fond eye, even if what I’m seeing is visually offensive in some way (see above about hand signs). I do not love what your body looks like, now. I do not love your double chin or your sagging breasts or the gut they barely cover. I do not love your poor spelling or poor grammar, nor do I love your choices in life. By the time this letter is finished, perhaps you will have concluded that I do not love you. For all I know, while I write this, I may convince myself of the same. All that remains for me now is to write it, and see.

            I admire your fortitude. I admire your dream job and I want to help you reach your dreams, but the life you want is now the life you have and I know I will never bring you away from it, no matter how much I so desire. You wanted marriage and kids and now you have a husband and a baby. Your primary hobby is also your dream job. It looks a lot to me like your life is moving in precisely the direction you always wanted. I’m glad things are going your way, sweetheart, I really am. Yet, I feel certain sadness when I look upon it; I recognize that now as disappointment in the fact that you are not living your life to a standard I have somehow set in my own mind. That isn’t fair to you, honey, and for that, I am sorry. Perhaps there is an imaginary scenario in my mind that I have clung to for far too long; now is the time to let it go and look on your life as your own, rather than some extension of mine.

            I want to see you get healthy. I want to see you be happy—truly, toothy-grin happy. I’ve never seen you upload a photo in which your teeth show when you smile. All of your smiles are close-lipped, barred, like there’s a wall within you that prevents you from letting go and letting the world see the light I know burns within you. I think that a large part of the sadness I feel for you is sadness in the knowledge that you have never had an orgasm. While you have not lived your life in any way like I thought you might, or like I’ve imagined perhaps that you should, you have not experienced the one thing that can bring a significant measure of peace and serenity to your life. For that, I pity you. I pity you greatly, because I experience an orgasm somewhat regularly and I believe every man and woman should. I want your life to be a fairy tale and I know it never will be because your husband looks like disappointment personified and your child has the pointed chin of Rumplestiltskin or Peter Pan.

            It should not have disappointed me when you asked about the crowd we used to mutually know, before you left. I should have felt happiness at the fact that you wanted to pick up right where we left off, as if all the years between had never even happened. That’s what good friends do, isn’t it? Best friends? We’re best friends, aren’t we? Yet, I felt disappointment because so many years had passed. I wanted to see a woman who had grown and learned, maybe even been educated, but ultimately who spoke like an adult. What I felt I was met with was a bloated teenager and that’s not fair to you because you are so much more than that. Maybe that’s the kind of thinking that leads to disappointment. So be it. So be it that I believe you are a woman who could do so much more than that to which you limit yourself.

            May you see this, my love, and know it is for you and you alone. May you know that I still love you, the way you were and even the way you are now. You are a woman who has achieved her dreams and continues to pursue them because some are still out there, waiting to be taken by the horns and forced into your repertoire of success, while I am a woman bereft of dreams because one of my greatest fears was realized instead of a greater desire and I suffer greatly from a depression that keeps me thinking, believing, even, that my dreams will do nothing but fail. You are a woman who lives a simpler life than I do and for that, perhaps I envy you.

Epiphany

I went through my file, Wednesday.

Now, you might be asking, “What file?” to which I respond, “The file of my life.”

It is exactly what it sounds like. It is a file, the kind you find in a file cabinet, filled to bursting with records and rewards, documenting my life.

I was looking for my immunization records because the Evergreen State College requires them. While digging through my file in my search, I found many other things that tell an interesting story about me—more interesting than I’ve ever given myself credit for.

There’s something about seeing an accomplishment written on paper—by someone else—that finally made it click in my mind that maybe, just maybe, I actually had accomplished something in my life. Maybe—just fucking maybe—I wasn’t a complete piece of shit, after all.

Ever since my diagnosis from the VA of “major depressive disorder,” it’s been a far more real and difficult battle than I’ve previously encountered. Fresh out of the military—thrown into adult life as a civilian with absolutely nothing—in addition to a brand-new baby and post-partum depression, along with the feeling that waiting simply wasn’t an option…

I’ve felt like a fuck-up since the day I set foot into the operational Air Force, but that feeling was the feeling of success compared to the feeling of utter failure I’ve felt since the day I separated.

But, then, I went through my file and found certificates of achievement, one after another.

Bethel High School Cultural Fair, Most Informative Booth: GSA Booth, Aleashia DeLaVergne.

Bethel High School Cultural Fair, Best Visual Display: GSA Booth, Aleashia DeLaVergne

Bethel High School Cultural Fair…

I think I have 5 different awards for “best booth” in one form or another from my sophomore year in the GSA club. My booth was about equal rights for the LGBT community and it displayed the violence perpetrated against gay people, particularly gay men and even more particularly, Matthew Shepard, whose story was the most detailed one I could find.

Lenderman’s Academy of Martial Arts… awards Aleashia DeLaVergne… yellow belt… orange belt… purple belt… green belt… first blue belt… second blue belt… first red belt.

Each belt is an accomplishment. I completed the requirements as a white belt to earn my yellow belt. I completed the requirements as a yellow belt to earn my orange belt. I completed the requirements as an orange belt to earn my purple belt, and so on until I earned my first red belt.

All this time, I’ve focused on how I hurt myself because of how badly Sifu had pressured me. I’ve focused on how hurting myself caused me to quit martial arts before I could earn my second red belt. Before I could earn my first or second brown belt; before I could earn my black belt. I wanted my black belt… I still do.

Then, finally…

I saw my reviews from National History Day, written by the judges of my performance, which I had the opportunity to perform twice at the regional competition. They all say such positive things—“Well done.” “Voicing the American People was a brave choice.” “Smooth character transitions.” “Well done.” “Good voice.” “I learned a lot from your performance.”

All this time, I’ve focused so hard on how I didn’t make it to the state competition. I was so focused on getting all the way to State—hopefully even Nationals—that when I didn’t make it past Regionals, I broke down. I remember—and now, when I remember the event, I am filled with humiliation, but at the time, I couldn’t have been bothered with embarrassment—exactly how I practically hyperventilated, I was crying so hard and so insistently. I remember distinctly how concerned Joey was—my classmate; my friend.

All this time, I’ve had six—at least SIX—positive reviews from the judges at that competition. And I burned my fucking script because I threw a fit and destroyed everything I’d worked so hard to achieve. I burned the papers, deleted the files.

If I still had my script, I would take on those roles once more, to perform as my final project in my Acting & Movement class. As it is, I’ll have to settle with singing the German National Anthem, and simply remember the competition more fondly by looking at my reviews every so often.

I also came across an essay I wrote for my AP Junior English class, my grade for which was above A+. I also found my report card for 9^th grade geometry—a solid, resounding “A” grade. Both of these things were great accomplishments for me; I felt so proud of them that I wanted to save them in my file.

In the very back of my file, there were two folders. One had my grandmother’s name on it, but the one with my name on it included my medical files from the years 1999 and 2000. In this stapled stack of papers were my immunization records, somewhere near the back.

My medical records taught me some things about my child self, at ages 7 and 8—the ages during which I lived with my mother. I have always remembered those years as the worst of my life and my medical records did little to disperse such reverie.

It was written in my medical records that we had 5 paper routes beginning at 03:00—that’s 3:00am for those of you who don’t deal with a 24-hour clock. It was written that my teachers reported my having “lots of attitude” and being “bored in class.” It even said, “Smartest kid in class.” It said I was doing 4^th grade work in the 3^rd grade because I was bored with the 3^rd-grade work.

I remember this. I don’t remember being the smartest kid in class, though; because I remember the test I took to skip the 3^rd grade. That’s right—I took a test to skip the 3^rd grade and I could have passed it. But, I didn’t. It’s probably better that I didn’t; I was always the youngest in my class, anyway.

But now I see, my entire life, I’ve only focused on how I failed the test—not on how few other children were testing to skip grades. Not on how none of the kids I wanted to be friends with had the opportunity to skip a grade. Not on the fact that the very fact that I was taking the test meant that I was extremely intelligent. No. Instead, I focused on how I failed. Suddenly, failing that test meant that I wasn’t smart at all. In fact, it meant I was stupid. I didn’t know anything.

I feel as if my life has been completely turned around. Looking through my file, reading my certificates and accomplishments, has done a great deal to go to my ego and boost me. Looking through my file has made me think to myself, “I am smart and capable.” I don’t remember the last time I thought something like that.

Looking through my file made me realize just how self-deprecating I’ve been in my life, and for how long. I’m so glad I have this organized collection of significance in my life—my SAT and ASVAB scores; my AFJROTC awards; my birth certificates. Those things are my life. My file doesn’t have an ounce of failure in it, but it does demonstrate some ways my mother failed me. It also demonstrates that I have been sick for a very long time and nobody had been able to notice it because of how bright and highly functioning I was. Not even I was able to see how bad it was because I believed that it was all in my head; I believed that I was just “feeling sorry for myself” for no reason, every time I cried over the petty losses and the small setbacks—tears I shed because I believed that they were colossal failures in my life.

Molehills were mountains. Mountains were insurmountable. I didn’t encounter a mountain until I separated from the military.

The thing is, when you come to a mountain, you have three choices. You can try to walk around it and probably spend your entire life figuring out directions; you can climb over it; or you can stay on your side of the mountain, unmoving and helpless.

My depression wants to hold me back from climbing the mountain, because the gods know that I do not have the patience to walk around. After all, what I want is on the other side, and I will do everything in my power to take the most direct path to get it. The most direct path from point A to point B is a straight line; a straight line goes right over that fucking mountain. I’m a monkey; I’ll manage. My depression tells me I’m a failure, that I can’t climb the mountain because I didn’t skip 3^rd grade, I didn’t get my black belt, I didn’t make it to State, I didn’t complete my enlistment in the Air Force. My depression told me that I couldn’t take care of my daughter because I don’t have patience, I raise my voice when I’m upset, I’m not capable of handling my emotions. My depression tells me I’m stupid and helpless.

Helplessness has never set well with me. It’s time to climb the mountain.

A Shocking Revelation

                My friend and long-time acquaintance, Alex, was visiting and Randy was napping with Persephone. We were talking about the past, a good 10-13 years ago, reminiscing on some good times, some bad times, and whatever else came to mind. We were on the topic of friends.

                “I only had two friends at Roy. And one of them was a shitty friend and the other one moved to Illinois at the end of sixth grade.”

                “Who was that?”

                “Rose Stramaglia.”

                “I remember her! You know, I was actually just thinking of her the other day.”

                “What? No way! I think about her off and on. We wrote to each other for a while, but then we lost contact. I’ve tried finding her online and everything, to no avail.”

                We went on for a little while, talking about Rose and how I missed her and how he heard her talking to his friend Meechie and that’s when he stopped picking on her like all the other kids did. I was impressed that she’d talked to one of the guys we thought were real assholes; I was also surprised to hear that she’d been a fan of and played Final Fantasy. That brought us to the topic of video games and I mentioned how my aforementioned shitty friend, Kaydee, would make me watch her play video games relentlessly.

                “She was a terrible friend. I’d go over to her house and she would just…”

                “She would just do whatever she wanted?”

                “I mean—yeah, basically—you know, she just did her own thing, regardless of my presence. She would play her video games and wouldn’t let me play or join.”

                “Wow.”

                “Yeah. Like, I’m pretty sure she’s the main reason I never was a big gamer. Because she never let me play. That, and my fucking games would disappear. Like, I had a Sega Genesis once, and my Sonic the Hedgehog and Echo the Dolphin games just up and disappeared… so I gave the console back to my dad.”

                All of a sudden, Alex was looking at me a lot more meaningfully, which is saying something, as he tends to have a very meaningful expression nearly all the time on his face. He looked away and I couldn’t figure out why he looked guilty, until—

                “Yeah, about that…” Deep breath. “I think… I’m pretty sure… I mean, I broke your game.”

                What?! Wait. No. What? How—I don’t even—what? I don’t remember taking my game to school, even. How did he break it? He never visited me; he’d never even met my grandma until just the other day! How the hell did he even get my game, let alone steal it?!

                Complete mystification. Honestly, I was shocked.

                “How—what?”

                “Yeah, I just saw it, like, hanging out of the desk, and I just… I just wanted it, so I took it. I think I wanted it for like, a collection thing, at first… and then I broke it. I don’t even know why I did it, I am so sorry. I felt like shit as soon as I did it, like, I probably just destroyed something that really meant something to someone. I’m sorry.”

                “Wow… I just… Wow. It’s okay…”

                “No, it’s not. I’m sorry. I’m a dick.”

                “Well… yeah. Just. Wow, dude, you were a dick.”

                “Yeah…”

                He looked so guilty, I couldn’t even be mad at him, which caused a great deal of confusion within me. All of a sudden, this great mystery of my life was solved, and the person responsible for me giving up my Sega was sitting right next to me, feeling as guilty as they come and apologizing profusely. Honestly, I couldn’t hold it against him. I couldn’t even say what would ordinarily have been the first thing to come to mind. I couldn’t bring myself to be indignant or angry, so I just said it was okay and he said it wasn’t, then I explained that I appreciate the honesty and it was a long time ago, so I don’t hold a grudge. Still, the revelation had rendered me shocked, to say the least.

                We revisited the topic a few more times. He couldn’t express his regret enough, despite my assurances that all was well—after all, he has a plan in place to make it up to me and it’s more than acceptable. Mostly, I couldn’t believe that he, of all people, was the person responsible for my loss of Sonic the Hedgehog. I never would have suspected him unless someone had been hinting at it. All this time, I’d thought that Kaydee had probably run off with it some time when she visited; it seemed to me as though the game was in my drawer one day and mysteriously gone the next. If someone had told me that a person had broken my game, I would have initially assumed it was my “friend”, and then I would have run down the list of kids who picked on me, from worst to best, until I gave up (because, honestly, I never would have guessed it was Alex).

                Even now, days later, I find myself bemused and mildly stunned to think of it. I hold no grudge, mind you; it was a long time ago and Alex has by and large made amends already. At the time, though, I found myself stunned. I made an attempt to take care of my daughter and it didn’t work; Randy took her back and I simply went outside to smoke because I was overwhelmed with emotion. The feeling that I’m failing as a mother is bad enough by itself; this night, it was amplified by the feeling that my peers, in my childhood, really wanted to ruin my life. I had been awash with a strange kind of joy at the moment of the revelation; the fact that Alex had provided me closure on this video game was a moment of great relief, despite the fact of the matter. It actually took a few minutes for the realization to sink in that I was sitting beside someone I now considered a close friend and he was telling me that he was personally responsible for what may have been a major event in my life that contributed to the reasons why I was never a big gamer like many of the friends I have now always have been. Suddenly, I felt as if my world had been turned upside-down. The world really was out to get me and the proof was in the pudding, as they say. Suddenly, I felt as if losing my Sonic the Hedgehog game for the Sega Genesis was the reason I didn’t play all of the Elder Scrolls games, or why I haven’t finished a video game since beating Portal 2 in tech school because my boyfriend-of-the-time insisted I play the game and I got hooked immediately. Suddenly, it was as if Alex was personally responsible for my never really fitting in to any niche or clique in school.

                I recognized the toxicity of those feelings as well as the irrational thinking behind them. I knew that what I was feeling was inaccurate and unreasonable, not to mention unfair to Alex. It had been a stupid, impulsive action by a preteen boy, for which he felt immediately sorry and has been regretting ever since. Who was I to start pinning all of my childhood woes on him? He wasn’t even a primary tormentor! If anything, he had largely left me alone up to seventh grade, when he would regularly bait me into letting out a completely predictable (because I said literally the same exact thing every time) stream of curse words that was intended to make him leave me alone. Then, after seventh grade, until he suddenly apologized for an array of things in our sophomore year and subsequently afterwards, he left me alone. We became Facebook friends after our making amends in school but still didn’t talk until I returned from the military and sent him a message, one day. I had absolutely nothing to hold against Alex—why the hell would I suddenly grasp on to this one cruel act and hold it over his head as though he deserves all the extra blame and guilt? I smoked a bowl and came back inside, moped around a bit, and finally started to feel better.

                Randy came in and Alex and I told him what we’d been discussing. Alex told Randy he was going to get me the game the next day, to replace the one he’d broken. Randy’s immediate response was to point out that I no longer have a Sega Genesis, followed by an anecdote about the Genesis he found that comes with 12 games, all for like fifty dollars, that Alex could get for me instead, for my birthday. Alex actually agreed—rather eagerly, in fact—even though I still felt as though he’d made amends enough and could make amends more in other ways if he felt the need. But, hey, he’s saving me from having to buy the Genesis myself later on!

In seriousness, though, I admire the honesty of my friend and the courage it took for him to look me in the eye and tell me what he did. Any person who has the moral fiber to do that deserves to be forgiven and to put the past behind them, releasing it and accepting it as a part of their past and nothing more, nothing worse.

Getting My Baby to Sleep

                “Shhh… Shhh… Shhh…” The mantra is a regular, along with Hush Little Baby and the occasional Alouette as I rock my six-month-old daughter in an attempt to make her sleep. Her eyes are heavy; they drift close only to snap back open and stare blearily at me, drifting closed yet again. Watching her fight sleep would be entertaining if it weren’t such a regular habit.

                Just about any parent on the plant knows the struggle, and if they don’t, I want to know their secrets to having babies sleep at regular times that can be scheduled.  My husband and I have been bed-sharing with our daughter since shortly after her birth; she slept better between the two of us and we wanted to be able to sleep, too. Now, she’s six going on seven months old and I am doing my absolute best to get her to sleep in her own bed. We have a pack-n-play set up on my side of the bed and I feel this need to insert myself as her mother, fully and completely, by getting her on a sleeping schedule wherein she sleeps in her own bed and things go well. I’m probably imagining some kind of unreachable utopia of parenthood that never happens, but it’s a damned good fantasy, damn it!

                It’s only been a few days, but here’s the rundown:

                Day after day, night after night, I sit in my recliner and rock with my daughter as I try to get her to fall asleep so I can put her in her bed and get work done. So far, I have only succeeded twice, and her sleep was short-lived. I don’t mind the short life of the nap as much as the times I’ve failed getting her to stay asleep after putting her down in her bed. I set up the old Graco swing my grandparents bought for us from a garage sale and found out Persephone enjoyed it. Shortly thereafter, I discovered that it wanted to launch Persephone at the TV. I still put her in the swing, but I either push her manually or watch her like a hawk while it’s on so that I can turn it off should it get even slightly too fast. We need a newer swing, but what can you do when you’re broke? That’s why I’ve been trying to learn HTML and other computer skills in order to have more success with my blog and, soon, my webcomic. Between trying to get Persephone to sleep and trying to work on my computer skills and making money online, I’ve found myself pushing off the Wii and getting a workout with Just Dance 4.

                This evening, I became so angry that I was shaking. Persephone had woken up both times I’d put her down in her bed; both times, she’d looked around for a minute or two and then started crying. I can’t figure out why she won’t go back to sleep like she’s done twice for me previously. Am I putting her down too quickly? Maybe I should fake putting her down before actually putting her down so that she doesn’t think much of it. Maybe I should also move slower as I go.

Quitting vs. Making Sacrifices

My heart is heavy. How often do you hear a person say those words, these days? I have a fondness for antiquated phrases, including “tickled,” which is used to express delight, glee, and other giddy feelings that frankly make you feel like something is actually tickling your insides. Euphemisms don’t just come out of nowhere, you know. Ah, but I digress. My heart is heavy.

                The weight is displaced and redistributed with the weight of my cat in my lap or my baby in my arms. Still, though, there rests an anvil atop my heart, its weight pressing down but not quite crushing the organ that so diligently pumps blood throughout my body, supplying blood to every last piece of me from my lungs, so close to the heart itself, to the tips of my temperature-temperamental toes. An anvil made not of any kind of metal, but rather formed by the truth of reality and adulthood seems to weigh more than any Acme product and I find myself wondering if I’m truly being honest with myself. Do I feel this weight in my heart because I am realizing now that reality is nothing like what I had hoped I could make of it, or does this weight rest so persistently within my chest because I suffer from depression and I haven’t taken my anti-depressant medication in days, if not a week?

                Why can’t I have it all? Why is it that there is only a finite amount of time in a day, a week, and I am terribly bad at managing it efficiently? This probably sounds very much like I’m complaining, like I’m sitting here whining “Oh, woe is me,” “Poor me,” “Why me?” But the truth is, I wanted to have it all. I wanted to make my life something amazing, something epic, and I wanted to manage things in a way that kept me busy and happy and also making money while I took care of my family. I wanted to have my cake, eat it, and show off to the world how amazing it was. Then, I was slapped with a realization that was just as cold, wet, clammy, and generally unpleasant as a recently-dead fish smacking you across the face when your brother decides it’s a good idea to start a fish fight in the little sailboat your dad took the two of you out in to do some fishing to try bonding as a family.

                It was all an illusion. The idea that I could juggle three full-time jobs and maintain happiness and sanity as well as order and whatever else you can think of was as illusionary as seeing an oasis in the middle of the desert when you’re dying of thirst and haven’t had water any time in recent memory. Only, for me, that mirage was shattered suddenly by the appearance of a small, yellow envelope from the Olympia Municipal Court, fining me for parking too long in a roadside parking space whose meter would only allot me two hours at a time. According to the slip of paper inside this crucial yellow envelope, it was not only the meter, but the space itself, which held a two-hour limit, and I had surpassed that time. It wasn’t the first time, either. In my mind’s eye, this yellow envelope fell upon a pile of yellow envelopes, collected over the course of perhaps two months, at most, and used as an effigy of sorrow and misery at the fact that I could not catch a break with parking in the city!

                I was accepted into a 90-day trial period as a tattoo intern. I was going to learn all there is to know about tattooing, the industry, the art styles, famous artists who have paved the way and pivoted change in the history of tattooing. Then, during my internship, I was going to start college and go to school for a fine arts’ degree. During these two endeavors, I also planned to be able to take care of my growing baby often enough that my husband could get his homework done for his own college classes. With the appearance of this final parking ticket was sparked a discussion with my husband about how many parking tickets I’ve accrued and, ultimately, how I’m going to be able to juggle my time between an internship, being a full-time student, and still managing to be a wife and mother at home. I can’t do it. I won’t be able to do it.

                When this realization hit me, as a train without brakes might hit anything in its path should it suddenly be derailed, I knew that I had to give up on something and there was only one thing that sucked money out and gave nothing monetary in return. That was my internship.

                I was scheduled through the weekend and had all intentions of completing that time—before I ended up sick with chest and sinus congestion and felt too much like death to go in for my last two days. Being an intern to become a tattoo artist required me to drive 35 minutes nearly every day, pay for parking in a city that increasingly seemed to have it out for me, and help take care of a tattoo shop wherein I was not allowed to touch actual tattooing equipment (yet) and most of the time, it was dead, so I sat around doing my drawing assignments and wondering how the hell I was going to come up with another 2,500 words to add to my essay about Old School style tattooing. Yes, it was stressful, but there was more to it.

                The requirements were strict and sometimes seemed overwhelming, but I spent my days doing the one thing I have always, always loved to do: Drawing. I was allowed to go half an hour away from home to spend time in a friendly shop where the artists only do custom work, the walls are decorated with paintings for sale by local artists, the Internet connection was pretty reliable, and there wasn’t a whole lot I had to do aside from drawing and writing. It was perfect for me. I loved it.

                Almost immediately after giving up the apprenticeship (internship—fucking state pedantics), I felt a kind of relief. It was as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Suddenly, I had all the time in the world between now and when I start college and I could use it to get the house cleaned up the way I want (since I clearly couldn’t rely on my husband to do any of it right), take care of my baby and let Randy get his schoolwork done, get laundry done, and cook every so often. I didn’t have to worry about the gas I was using during my 35-minutes-each-way commute. I didn’t have to worry about whether or not the parking meter would expire or if I was parked too long in a space, anymore. I no longer needed to keep a shop clean in which I contributed almost nothing to the mess—even though cleaning the shop was never, not even once, a weighted point in the consideration of whether or not I could keep up the internship.

                People say that sacrifices have to be made in life. Have I made a sacrifice? Have I sacrificed my internship in order to give the other things in my life more meaning? Have I sacrificed the internship in order to be a better wife and mother and, soon, student? Or, have I quit on something that made me happy? Have I quit on something that would have made me a living no matter where I was?

                My heart is heavy. I miss the routine. I miss getting up for the day and choosing something nice and classy to wear to “work”. I miss being in the tattoo shop/art gallery. I miss having drawing assignments, because the gods know that unless someone gives me an idea these days, I can’t draw for shit.

                Indeed, my heart is heavy. But I think that most of the weight making up the anvil resting within my chest actually comes from the idea that the instant I said I couldn’t do it, I was replaced. I thought that my time in the shop mattered. I thought I was making meaningful relationships and I felt as though I mattered, at least a little bit. Then, while I was emailing the owner, she asked me to effectively show the ropes to the new intern. So, am I caught up over the semantics of whether I’ve quit or made a sacrifice, or does the weight in my heart come from a feeling of betrayal?

Post-Military Life

                When I initially decided to separate from the Air Force under the pregnancy clause, I decided it would be a brilliant idea to turn around and enlist in the Air Force Reserves. That way, I could retain TriCare for my family and only work part-time, which would be phenomenal with a new baby. After arriving in Washington and speaking with the in-service recruiter at Joint Base Lewis-McChord, however, the reserves unit here decided they wouldn’t take me because my last official physical fitness test was a failure. They didn’t want to set me up to fail again after joining, since I was pregnant at the time—it made sense, so I decided I’d try again a few months after having my baby.

                I stand by my decision to separate. As a breastfeeding mother, I rest easily in the knowledge that I can provide for my daughter better as a civilian than I could have as an Airman—regardless of whether or not my husband had been able to remain enlisted. At the time of my decision to separate, I didn’t know how much longer Randy would be in the military; the mental health clinic was working on the paperwork to have him go through the Medical Evaluation Board (MEB) for separation, which can take up to a year to fully process. He would have been stuck in place at Spangdahlem while I was scheduled to PCS (change bases) in August, 2014 (I would have moved right after Persephone was born). The last thing I wanted to do was get to my next base and have to worry about finding child care; I refused to take my baby to the on-base Child Development Center (CDC) with what I knew about Spangdahlem’s CDC and I sure as hell didn’t want to start screening babysitters. I generally don’t trust people.

                It has taken me some time after separating—and upon deciding to separate and getting the ball rolling to do so, it was decided that Randy’s separation would be much, much faster than an MEB because his would be an administrative discharge instead—but I have finally realized something very important about myself.

                Everything I had done with my life up to that point—short of the decisions to get married and separate from the military—I had done to impress my family and make them proud of me. Joining the military—I wanted my grandparents, particularly my grandma, to be pleased with the decision I’d made post-high-school to move forward in my life and become independent, as I’m a fiercely independent person anyway but hadn’t decided what I wanted to do, really. After joining the military, getting a bit out of shape, and deciding to get back into shape for my own happiness (it was working), I was looking at new clothes in a completely different style from what I really like. I was beginning to replace my wardrobe with jeans, scarves, nice coats (oh, they’re nice and I’m keeping them, but my intentions for how to wear them have changed), and… well, white and generally much less black. In addition to the lightening of my wardrobe, I’d grown my hair out just past my shoulders, which was, suffice to say, very much not me. I really prefer my hair short and ready to spike up at will.

This is an acceptable outfit—would be more so if the undershirt were black.

This is where my wardrobe was going—maroon and white—and the skirt is acceptable but there simply isn’t enough black, here.

                I like having a dark wardrobe. I like having black as my primary color and I like wearing dark makeup. I like looking intimidating and formidable, strong and confident. Since being denied entry to the reserve unit here at JBLM, I’ve realized I don’t particularly want to join the Reserves at all, particularly since my only real reason for doing so is for the insurance—something that we can get with the VA anyway. I’ve begun revamping my wardrobe again—this time, it should be permanent. I’ve bought some long skirts, mostly black but one brown and one green. I’ve decided I want to wear primarily black with some earthy colors as well. I want to look witchy. I want to look like I can walk into the room and cast a spell on you with a look, and I think that look is partially accomplished with long, floor-length gypsy skirts that flow nicely and drag when I go down stairs. I like looking like I could be dressed for Halloween on any day of the year, whether it’s Christmas, my birthday, or actually Halloween (although, naturally, I like to go all out with a costume for Halloween).

                Recently, I used my husband’s detail trimmers on my eyebrows without the guard. I had no idea there was a guard to prevent cutting hairs too short, and ended up nearly shaving my eyebrows off completely. The very next day, I bought an eyebrow pencil and some red lip color since I didn’t have a good one. The eyebrow pencil is dark brown but looks black, and I drew my eyebrows on and took a selfie, which I uploaded to Facebook and subsequently received more likes than I’ve ever received on any of my posts! I also got multiple comments from my guy-friends to the tune of “Wow”, like I’m really sexy and they never noticed, and the way I had my makeup that day really accentuated my look. I looked like a freaking vamp. It was amazing.

                Naturally, because I was truly pleased with it for myself, Mema simply couldn’t approve. She thought my brows were too dark with the pencil, that I’d pressed down too hard or something. The only problem I had with my drawn-on brows was that I’d drawn my right brow thicker than my left. I did much better the next day.

                So, now is the time for the ultimate point of this post.

                I have realized that I no longer care what my family thinks. I don’t give a shit if they’re impressed by what I’m doing or if they approve of my decisions, I’m going to live my life the way I want to so that I’m happy. I married a man who wants nothing more than to make me happy the way I want to be—not in a way that he approves of—because he loves me for who I am and nothing less. So, Mema thinks my brows were too dark and unnatural? Great! I’ll draw them darker and less natural next time! I’ll keep my brows nearly-completely-shaved so that I keep drawing my brows on and I might just wax them off completely to experiment with brow looks! Who knows? It’ll be fun! So, Mema doesn’t like corsets or doesn’t approve of me wearing them? I don’t care! I’ve always wanted to wear corsets and I finally have a couple of them! I’m going to wear them until they freaking break! So, my dad thinks it’s unwise of me to move into an apartment with my best friend? I don’t really care, because I’ve given it an awful lot of thought, talked a lot about it with her, her boyfriend, and my husband, and we’ve decided that it is the best decision for where we currently are in our lives.

                I’m done trying to mold myself into someone or something I’m not just to please my family. I am who I am and if they really can’t accept that, then they can see a lot less of me in the years to come. I’m grateful for everything they have done for me that has helped me in my life—I truly am—but I will no longer lie down and try changing myself to be who they want me to be, nor will I continue living so cautiously that I never take a chance to do what I’m really interested in. I’m going to leap into real estate investment while taking my medical billing specialist course and everything is going to be fucking fantastic, even if it takes a couple of years to get there.