Tuesday, December 23, 2014


When I was eighteen, I once took someone to Opa-locka to buy heroin in the middle of the night. Well, maybe it wasn't quite the middle of the night, but it was midnightish, which was defintely late enough for it to be a pretty scary experience. It was just the two of us, a guy I barely knew and me, in the car, and when I say barely knew him, I mean it was the second or third time I'd laid eyes on him in a five-year period. All I really knew about him was that he was the ex-boyfriend of the sister of a friend of mine, that he liked the song Bitchin' Camaro, and that he was a heroin addict. And, of course, that he was cute.

Which is actually extremely relevant to this post.

I hadn't really thought about that night in a while, but a couple days ago, when one of Griffin's friends was telling me about his car having broken down (with Griffin in it) between two bad neighborhoods and them hearing a gunshot, it came to mind, and because it was relevant, I told Griffin and his friend the story.

I told them about how when I had my apartment with my sister, I drove someone to get heroin in Opa-locka in the middle of the night, and it was one of the scariest experiences of my life. I told them about how we drove up and down some side streets until we found one where a bunch of men were milling about, some on foot, some on bikes, and how the person I was with had me pull up next to a specific guy, only to roll down his window, take a look at the guy and scream, Go, go, go! in such a loud and urgent manner that I was sure I was about to get shot and killed right then and there and that he did that to me not once, not twice, but three different times, which means that three times in a span of about five minutes, I was sure I was going to die.

Griffin's friend then asked me why I would do something as stupid as drive someone to Opa-locka to buy heroin in the middle of the night, and before I could answer him, Griffin did by asking me a question. He looked at me and, never having heard the story before, not knowing anything more than what I've told you just now, said, It was a cute boy, wasn't it?

And I'm pretty sure that tells you absolutely everything you need to know.

The part about my watching him shoot up in my bathroom, vomit in my toilet, and what ensued on my bathroom floor immediately after pretty much only reiterates what you've already been told.

Monday, December 15, 2014

A Beautiful Lie

When I was twelve and in seventh grade, I decided, for really no reason at all, that I liked some kid who I'd kind of met once while waiting in line for lunch. I asked around, found out who he was, and then, because writing is what I do, decided to write him a note and have one of my friends give it to him in the hall. Well, I'm a lunatic with inappropriate written all over me--ask anyone--so it might not come as a huge surprise that by the end of the school day, the last note I sent to him was note number four. Yes, that's right, I said four. I pretty much randomly chose a guy I knew not one little bit and wrote him not one, not two, not three, but four notes professing what amounted to my undying affection for him. It was a crazy long time ago, so who the fuck knows what those notes said? Certainly not me, but for some reason, I feel like I remember something horrific, something mortifying (yes, even more mortifying than my giving some boy I didn't know four notes in one day--when I wasn't even cute!) something along the lines of, Writing to you is the only thing I even want to do anymore.

(My God, can I die?)

Even now, all these years later, I shudder at the memory and feel like hiding in shame. All you sane people out there who know the line between what's acceptable human behavior and what's not probably can't imagine how I feel, so allow me to demonstrate. The best representation of the whole ordeal is this:

It's so painful, I can barely stand to look. It's a good thing, I'll bet you're thinking, I lived that horror so many years in the past.


You know that tagline on my blog that says I'm an introvert in person and an extrovert in print? It's not a joke.

Give me any writing medium--a note, a text, a blog--and I have no control. Everything inside of me just comes out, appropriate or not.

I know you know what I mean.

Mark Hoppus says the past is only the future with the lights on, and I have to say he's right because don't you know I've been doing the same things repeatedly for my entire life? Sure, the medium's changed, but the action, the inappropriateness, the perceived notion of somethingness that in reality doesn't exist--those things have all remained. But now...something's happened that's made me see. Something much more enlightening than the lights on.


I can't talk about it
(I'm learning, see?).


I can tell you something.

I know it's hard to believe, but I've had an epiphany. Really.

I hate to go all cliche, but I have no choice because every time I reflect, this stupid-ass saying goes through my head: Reality has hit me like a ton of bricks.

Among my recent realizations, realizations that, unlike realizations in the past, have really affected my behavior and my understanding of myself:

1. I have attachment issues. Like, seriously.
2. I am the worst judge of character in the history of people who have judged people's character.
3. If a person only knows a part of you, that person will never, ever see you as a real person. You will forever be a whisper of who you really are.
4. I am, at times, a caricature of myself.
5. All the passion in the world, and I'm not talking sexual passion, won't sway a person who doesn't want to be swayed.
6. I not only don't know when or where to draw the line, but I sometimes go so far over the line, the idea that there's even a line would be comical if it weren't so sad. To me, the world is sometimes lineless.
7. Wanting something really, really, really badly isn't always enough.
8. I actually bring some things--okay, a lot of things--on myself.
9. I'm not as sad as I like to think.

I know I kind of vagued that whole thing up, but--
epiphany, remember?

Sunday, December 7, 2014

I'll Sing Along

I had a short stay in a private psychiatric facility when I was sixteen (I wish I could say it was my first time, but that would be a lie). I was dramatic and crazy to begin with and my life was dramatic and crazy as well, and a crazy, dramatic life and a crazy, dramatic personality equal more drama and crazy than people are meant to handle. Super long story completely skipped over, I couldn't handle the drama and crazy and needed to kind of disappear from my life for a while. So I did.

Now, I'm not saying I need to disappear from my life the way I did when I was sixteen, and I'd hate to be the kind of girl to bandy about vague, nonscientific terms that don't exactly mean anything, like nervous breakdown, but I will tell you this:

I think I may need to disappear from my life.

Not forever. Not even for a significant period of time.

Maybe just take a little break.

Maybe just for long enough for me to remember how I used to be.

I mean, I'm sure everything is fine, and

the fact that I've suddenly gone from someone who immediately emails or texts people back the second she sees their text or email to someone who's so reluctant to email or text people back that it pains her to even open up texts or emails isn't the biggest deal in the world and the fact that I've gone from someone who used to read every one of the five to ten magazines she subscribes to at any given time to someone who can't even manage to get through a single article probably isn't call for alarm and the fact that I've gone from someone who's loved food, adored food, obsessed over food her entire life to someone who now has practically no interest in putting anything in her mouth doesn't mean very much at all, just like the fact that I've gone from someone who's spent her life on the phone to someone who can't stand to talk to people for a second also likely doesn't mean anything at all.

I'm also sure the fact that I no longer can spell a word doesn't mean anything and all the things I can't remember are pretty unimportant. And does anybody really think not being able to maintain a train of thought for a minute straight means anything at all? I'm sure they don't.


the way my judgment's flown leaped hurled itself out the window? That one might actually mean something.

(You want details? Oh, I've got details. Too bad you can't have them.)

Or my being so distracted that when I walked home from my sister's house today I passed the street I've lived on for twelve years and didn't even realize it until I walked about a mile out of my way? I'm thinking that one means something, too.