Teetering on Borderline

I waited seven days. The majority of those hours, within those days, were spent in bed. Internetting, in bed. Netflixing, in bed. Texting, in bed. Anticipating the next move, in bed. Waiting to move but unable to lift up and out of, the bed.

Today will be a new day. This year will be a new year. I will be different, I will be better, I will be thinner, I will be wiser. I will publish. I will create. I will learn how to love better. I cannot be loved if I do not know how to love. Do I know how to love? I don’t think I really know how to love.

This is an issue. Because I believe I do. It’s all I think about, it’s all I talk about. So how can I claim to know love and yet admit I am a terrible lover? Is my craving for love really a craving for an obsession?

I am obsessed with myself. I am obsessed with the way others love me. I am obsessed with those who want to love me. This, I think, is not love. Maybe this is OCD. This is the opposite of love. This is about control. Love is not control. OCD is not love. Maybe I’m afraid of how boring love could be. The type of love that the experts say is the real love. The love you don’t see at the end of a poorly plotted movie. Do I find obsession sexy? What is sexy? People say these words and I don’t know what they mean.

They like to say I’m wishy-washy. I’m free-spirited. I’m a fly-by-the-seats type of gal. I’m an open book. Maybe I’m not, though. Is this a game I play? What if I was a double agent? Which side am I on? I keep multiple facades in order to have maximum control.

I control the image you want to have of me. It’s a bit. I’m playing a part. Who am I when I’m in this bed, alone? Why have a façade when I’m in a bed, alone? If I don’t know, how can somebody else know? How will I reach the boring stage of love if I can’t love myself to boredom? What is boredom? How do I tell the difference between laziness, boredom, nihilism, or depression? If I don’t know the differences between these how can I tell if my love is real love? What does real even mean?

This is bullshit. We’re all everything at some point, right? I am human. You are human. These moments mean I’m doing something right. This is called being human.

I’m out of bed. I’m in the snow. It is snowing. It was snowing and it is still snowing. Why is my body still trapped in August? This is not a fluke snowstorm in the middle of summer. I know this is winter because it’s time for bed at 3 pm. It’s dark all of the time. In the summer I worry about my hair, about how long it is, about how I let my bangs grow out so I can see clearly through the haze of sweat. But in the winter I also worry about my hair, about how long it is, about how I haven’t stopped growing out my bangs because I was in denial that August had come and gone. Who am I if not someone with bangs? I was loved as a person with bangs. Will I be loved as a person without bangs? I keep waiting for this feeling to arrive. I keep waiting to feel like something has concluded. How can I move on if it hasn’t ended? Maybe I need to trim my bangs.

I’m outside, in the snow, and I forgot my gloves because it is January and not August. It’s colder than I expected.

Dog, with leash hooked to collar, carries the leather strap in her mouth, rolls in the snow, never letting it exit her jaw. She wants me to tug, but she won’t let me close enough to grab hold. She makes all the rules out here. She’s in control. Does Dog love me? Does she need me to love her? Is this boring? Am I bored?

I throw snow at Dog and she jumps as if electrocuted. She leaps into the air trying to catch every loose snowflake. I want to jump and eat snow with her. I want someone to grab my leash. I want my human to gently tug and not leave me when they get bored. I want to stay long enough to see if I know how to love through the boredom.

We sit in the snow; white dust falls on our noses. It is just my voice out here, speaking to Dog. It is just us, and the snow. She wants to keep playing her tug game, but my hands are red and cold. Will she still love me once we go back inside?

I am alone, back in bed. Tomorrow will be different.

------

#52essays2017

Essay #1

An Overview (In Which I Examine Everything)

The last few weeks have felt like an accumulation of endings. I do not fare well with endings. I feel guilty for not appreciating what I was experiencing when I was experiencing it, so I want to resist change. Every arena of my life (ie: school, work, personal) changed simultaneously in the last month of the year and it has been chaos within. It’s been so easy to cry. I don’t want to let go, but I’m uncertain if I should hold on…but there seems to be nothing to hold onto, at least it’s not the same thing I wanted to hold onto. I think this is what people call life.  

It took three solid years to figure out the best routine in the "office." The best way to sleep. The best way to store my belongings (which has now reached a ridiculous limit...I have a hot plate, kitchen set, a travel guitar, paint, supplies to make coasters, a magic set, plants, boxing gloves, multiple backpacking packs, a space heater...I can go on and on). The best way to live. Home is rather comfortable and cozy now. It wasn't always, and I wish I knew how to have made it as delightful as I feel as it is now back then...but I suppose I learned something along the way in those trying initial years.

Construction on the office was a rumor for so long. And maybe it is finally happening now because the universe knows that I've grown comfortable here. I am as safe as a squatter can be. There's never a perfect time and I wish it wasn't happening, but it's as good of a time as any.

The last few days have been disheartening. I do feel a need to nest and rest. But still there are some things I won't budge on, financially. My standards, albeit odd, are still standards. I'd rather sleep on a table than have a bed for $1400. That’s easy for me to say because I don’t have $1400…but I’m sure if I did I’d choose the table.

For the first time in many years I'm not leaving the country in January, but I'm feeling the itch for adventure, for exploration. Two nights ago I met a potential client, a man who had a three-legged cat named Daddy, and his studio apartment was decked out to the T as if Ernest and Teddy were his private decorators. Zebra and cheetah prints, elephant shrines, bamboo walls: a kitty-cat's dream. I forgot what it was like to venture into someone's home, a cat myself, nervous for the unexpected.

Yesterday, unrelated to the Safari-three-legged-cat man, I reached out to a man whom I've corresponded with briefly three years ago, about a boat. Our brief conversation was strained, rude, and overwhelming. A highlight:

"Are you one of those people who say they're going to show up but then don't? Or do but just waste my time and don't have any money?!"

"Uh, no?"

"So you're coming with hard cash?"

"Before I commit to anything I want to actually see the boat and figure out if it works for what I need."

"If you're not coming with any money then don't even bother. Every day I have people call and say they're going to come, and I wait around and nobody comes. It's a waste of my time. This is my life. My life is an actual waste of time. I should just kill myself because this isn't worth it anymore. What am I even waiting for?"

"Uh...well, I'm sorry...that...you've dealt with unfortunate people. I still want to come by. I promise I’m not wasting your time."

After some more back-and-forth banter about nothing and suicide and money and more nothing:

“So, how do I get to the boat?”

"The closest address you can use is the Circus Warehouse."

Well, then.

I was convinced that this man was possibly a deranged, unstable dick and that he was going to murder me, or that I was going to murder him due to how anxious he made me.

It was my first time exiting this particular subway stop and he met me at the subway, unexpectedly. It didn’t feel like NYC, but maybe that was because I didn’t know where I was heading. I felt foreign and out of place. He was a red-head in his mid-forties dressed in a black hoodie. He looked like someone who had lived on the docks, and it was possible he was recovering from something, but my perception may have been colored by the thought of him ready to kill himself. His wrinkled face was desperate. He walked quickly and nervously; we began the small talk.

"You can see the mast from here." He was right. There were multiple masts bobbing along. Good. The boat was real.

We zigzagged across traffic and took a shortcut through parking lots where the big-rigs sleep for the evening. I tried to keep track of my location. Right by the water I saw a big warehouse of a building.

"So, the circus warehouse...is that, like, an actual warehouse for circus props, or..." I said it more as a joke.

"Yeah, well, it's where the circus people train."

"WHAT!"

"Yeah."

"Do you ever go in and watch them?"

"Yeah, sometimes."

He was absolutely not fazed or impressed by his neighbors.

Ah, what a feeling. It was a feeling of excitement, wonder, and curiosity. I was a traveler again. I forgot what this felt like.

We reached the river, and squeezed between a wire fence and a crumbling cement wall. The bank along the water was steep and unstable.

"Wow, it really smells like dark chocolate here."

"Oh, yeah, that's from the warehouse."

"Wait, it's actually dark chocolate? I have a good nose."

"It smells good at first, but you get tired of it fast. They kept dumping it here with all these cement bricks, so it's a bitch to get to the boats."

And he was right. We had to stand on unstable, crumbling cement abutments and leap onto the side of the sailboat; or climb down a metal ladder held together by rope to a cement wall. He never stopped to make sure I didn't fall over myself. He never asked if I needed a hand getting over the high wires, or with leaping from one sailboat to the next. He just ploughed through, and I liked this about him.

We talked for a long time. We shared a lot of similarities.

"My sister moved to Amityville for a while. She only lived there for 5 years but she picked up an accent. She sounds more Long Island than you do. You don't sound like you're from there at all."

"Thank you. I get that a lot. Maybe it has something to do with having a deaf mother-"

"Oh, your mother is deaf? My sister and all four of her children are too."

He showed me the sailboats; bare-bones and to the point. Here is not a place for luxury. But for the asking price I wasn't expecting luxury. In need of luxury, like a shower, I could easily access my current resources. All I really needed was a place to sleep and a nice quiet place to write. Considering what my needs were, what my bare-bone needs were, this seemed to actually satisfy them. I splurged an extra $50 to have the boat with electricity, a move that, perhaps a few years ago, I would have forgone to save a few extra dollars, so perhaps I was also changing unknowingly.

I said yes.

It was my first time going to a "viewing" of a “home” with the intention of purchasing. It's "impressive" I've managed to go 29 years without officially paying "rent," or going "apartment hunting." The ordeal creates vulnerability. It is terrifying. The barter system just makes more sense to me. But, when bartering no longer can work, it’s nice to know I can still find a way around a system.

"Sorry if I was a real dickhead earlier on the phone."

"Yeah, you were a little overwhelming."

"It's just...I get screwed every day, and I'm not making any money. People here think it's okay to say they'll show up and then disappear."

"I know what it's like to wait."

“Hey, at least now I can pay my cell phone bill.”

“And I have a place to crash. This worked out well.”

Three years ago I began my life over in New York, scrambling for opportunities and insight. I’d drive out-of-the-way to LIC to save on commuting costs and park in “free” places and carry onwards to gigs where I used to work as a clown. And then unwillingly, briefly, was displaced to a boat and later transitioned to the office. It was an odd life-choice rooted from unfortunate circumstances. Now, I end this cycle again, willingly, on a boat, close to where I used to drive and park, and no longer a “clown” per se, but excited to watch others perfect their circus art. Endings don't feel so bad when there's symmetry to help make sense of it all.

So, in January or February, if anyone feels like taking a journey to Long Island City, and climbing over some ladders, hopping over some boats, exploring dark chocolate riverbanks, wondering what the big-rigs are lugging in, listening to the circus trainers practice...you're welcome aboard the Ranger's Charlie and having some wine with me.

Reluctance

The thing with Depression is the frightening familiarity of it all. It returns; wades; treads; impedes my movement. Quietly. Only until I come up for air, to regain clarity, do I realize I've been submerged, and holy fuck look at how much time has passed, I need to stop this and move on and wait, maybe I'm just lazy or tired and I should get up, get up, get out, come on, get up. Rinse. Repeat.

For the first time in fourteen years I finally went to speak to someone. Not particularly because I was in a rough head-space (but I was), but because economically it was feasible. By the time I met Margo I was already in the process of moving forward from an unfortunate trauma. With the annual winter sadness, late-20-something-year-old fears, typical graduate school stress, I unwillingly tacked on the task of recovering from an assault that occurred during my travels last January. It was already a trip masked in sadness and nostalgia; I found myself questioning characteristics about myself that I thought I had already answered. It occurred during a time where I was determined to override all of my anxieties. When it happened I quickly realized I was unable to cope with such an event, despite the experience I had with dealing with past/familiar trauma; the aftermath proved that coping was not happening any time soon. This wasn't my first attack. Not by a long shot. But it was the first of something, but what or how is still difficult to express. These things are unnameable.

Now there was something foreign about me. Something off. I felt it. Others saw it. I wasn't the same.

Spring had arrived by the time I met Margo and I was on my way to breathing real air again. I had spent the winter physically ill from my incapability of coping emotionally. I had known Depression for so long in many different manifestations, but this was a new breed. This was silent. It wasn't sadness. It was absolute nothing. It was giving up. My immune system began attacking itself. I was covered in stress-hives for three months. I gained an incredible amount of weight. I couldn't write at all. For the first time I was late and unresponsive to deadlines. I had my employer even ask if I was suicidal because of how unlike myself I had become. Textbook Depression. Textbook Trauma Aftermath. And with all of that I still didn't care. But because I felt myself not caring I started to care about not caring. At the end of the day my obsession with my neurosis will always somehow help dig me out.

Then came more sunlight, more reflection, more time to accept myself and what had happened.

When I told Margo my story she asked, "How did you cope afterwards? Who did you speak to?" and I surprised myself when I admitted, "nobody." That wasn't totally true. Where I was I had limited access to people I would have spoken to, so I wrote about it briefly in a message to the Boy, but being halfway around the world from one another there's only so much support one can receive. It took over a month for me to talk to anyone face-to-face about it. I didn't realize that's how long I had waited to finally start the process of asking for help. When one hits the final stage of giving up, asking for help no longer feels necessary.

Margo looked surprised. She said that was a long time to go without reaching out to a friend.

That was the beginning of realizing that being honest isn't necessarily the same as being open. I have really grown into myself these last few years. I'm constantly surprising myself with my own audacity. It's bold and exciting. Sometimes it's only afterwards when I realize "Oh! Wow, I didn't know that was how I felt." Usually it involves me not caring about certain conventions or rules. I'm an open book. I don't have anything to hide; if my self-deprecation is any hint, I don't have much pride or ego to protect either. I'm proud of my honesty. I don't shy away from difficult discussions.

I assumed being loud, honest, and unforgiving about my life also meant I was a complete open book. Lately I'm discovering I'm more of a private person than I ever realized. Rarely do I openly discuss my relationship with the Boy (but won't shy away from discussing him when asked) or ask someone to talk about something that is bothering me. I let it fester until somehow it comes up organically in a conversation with someone. It's been an interesting thing to discover about myself. I keep everything inside until the levee breaks.

 Margo also asked, "When would you say you first felt depressed?" and before I answered I actually laughed. "It's always been there. Beneath the surface. Some days are good, but it's always there. I don't know who I am without it. I thought that was natural?"

She didn't confirm whether or not that feeling was a typical human feeling like I had assumed. Given her reaction I reckoned it was a no. My frame of reference has always been a bit skewed.

So, here we are. Again. I now understand the question "Do you feel a loss of interest in the things you used to enjoy?" I used to feel determined that it was never that bad because, at least, I had interest. It's been difficult to muster up motivation after experiencing the opposite of that. I'm trying to wake up again. It's a slow process. Slower than I remember.

I hoard my feelings, my time, my words. And only now, seven months later, do I feel up to the challenge of wanting to breathe again. Though, I'm still reluctant. I'm still missing deadlines. I'm still hesitant. I'm still in bed, wherever I find my head these days, unmovable.

Rinse. Repeat.
Wade. Tread.
Wake up.
Get up.
Move.
Please.

522 Days

Holy mother. 

I had to calculate a few times to make sure that number above was correct. It's been 522 days since I last wrote in (on?) this. 

That's not to say I haven't been writing. It's interesting to note that the decline in writing has correlated with the amount of writing I needed to do for school. I have gotten into the habit of resorting to the phrase "blame grad school" as an explanation for practically anything. Especially as a justification for any decline in consistency - whether that be with friends, family, work, anything. 

I'm tired. I'm so tired that I feel embarrassed for even thinking those other times were times where I thought I felt so tired. I think to myself, "My god! Those other times were nothing to how exhausted I feel right now. Imagine how many things I could have completed by now if I didn't convince myself then that I was so tired?!" But then again, I will probably find myself thinking the same thing about this moment a few months down the line and convince myself then that how tired I feel currently was actually minuscule. I hope not, because I can't imagine how I could ever feel more tired than I do at this moment. 

I think it's a vitamin deficiency. Which isn't too wacky of a self-diagnosis. Now that I've been cleared of some other ailments that I had hypothesized (Rheumatoid Arthritis, Lyme Disease) I think I'm running now with vitamin deficiency as the ailment to resolve. Makes sense given the last few years of fluctuating diet and assortment of conflicting medicine. And hormones. Mother fucking hormones are tearing me apart. 

Because I crave the need to feel validated in the time spent away from particular tasks I am going to make a list of things completed from the last 522 days. This is all very masturbatory, but if that's what I have to do in order to move forward with more general thoughts then so be it. 

• My last entry was April 19, 2013. 
• What's interesting is that was the night I first read for The CCNY MFA Reading Series abiding to their month's theme of "Life After..." After a few weeks of writer's block I was able to easily write a "concise" short story only after I realized the work I was originally comparing myself to (and that was contributing to my self-doubt as a writer) was not from a published genius but actually something that I had written from a few years before. Acknowledging this opened the flood gates and I was able to write The Impersonator, a brief story about cat-sitting in other people's apartments, and I knew, after the draft was done, that I had finally written something that could be read out loud. And I was correct. 
• May 2013: 
• I was asked to join The CCNY MFA Reading Series as a committee member for the next school semester. I felt honored that my excitement to build a community within the MFA realm was noticed. 
• Completed (survived) my first year (second semester) of Grad School. I finished a short one-act play (Ipsa Dixit), translated sections of a Georgian novel and some poetry, and wrote really long, drawn out stories about being a clown in New York City and a day in the Sahara Desert. Not nearly enough content that I thought I'd produce, but it was a good lesson in learning what I needed to work on- craft wise.
• I also dated a lot. I spent the entirety of that academic year meeting a lot of new people through school. I was also nursing (what was to be the beginning-ish of one injury after the next after the next after the next) either some sickness, migraine, or injury. I spent the academic year trying to figure out who it was I wanted to be in New York City and who I wanted to spend my time with. I ended up spending most of my time with some people who were not emotionally conducive for growth. Overall they weren't bad people- we just didn't fit correctly. I'm sure I was just as toxic for them as they were for me. It took months to figure that out. There were a lot of months compact with breakdowns and bad decisions. I was also in denial that I was very much in love with someone who lived 600 miles away from me. No matter who I used as a distraction I couldn't shake the hidden truth that I was waiting for someone else. The boy visited for a brief day and a half.  

• June 2013: 
• I made my first set of hand-made collage coasters. 
• I went to a NYC taping of The Soup and had Joel McHale bend down to my size for a photo (he is tall and I am not). I'm not sure if this is an accomplishment but it's something that happened. 
• I purchased a Groupon for a set of personal training gym sessions because I was finally ready to admit that I do not get much done unless someone is yelling at me to do something. 
• I returned to the Rocky Mountains in Colorado to climb some mountains with Danny.   
  
• I taught ESL for two weeks (for the second summer) to another lovely, yet rowdy, small batch of young Turkish girls. 
• July 2013: 
• The boy came to visit for fourth of July. We explored Coney Island. The visit was inspired from one of our many phone conversations about where the hell this whatever-it-was-at-the-time relationship was leading up to. It would be a long five days, the longest we had spent with one another in a year, and filled with a lot of tiny emotional moments from discussing Christmas plans for 2014 to not knowing if a long distance relationship could ever work out between the two of us. He left and I retreated to Long Island where I saved a turtle from getting run over and I cried for two days straight from heartache. 
• 
• I started a new summer job for the NYC Parks Department as a Playground Associate in TriBeCa, a total bogus job title that basically trickled down to hanging out in a park and playing fetch with 6 year old kids. There were some beautiful insightful exchanges of words between some of the young regulars and myself. They were all pretty spot on about how I was definitely underpaid and how I was probably in love and that I should resolve both of these issues.To be fair, this was the most amount of money I had ever made from any job in my entire life...but that's not saying much.
• I read my short story about the Sahara Desert, Yalla Habibi, for Say What! Productions at Old Man Hustle down in the LES. My friend Terri came all the way down from Boston to hear me read. It was one of my favorite surprises. 
• I cat-sat a lot. I was able to spend most of the summer in other folk's homes while they traveled- providing me with free rent and new scenery. I "lived" briefly in Bath Beach, Cobble Hill, Astoria, Ditmas Park, and Fort Greene.  
• August 2013: 
• Started the second year of Grad School (third semester). I was still confused about who I was. 
• Purchased my first PO box. Somehow this still didn't make me feel validated for squatting in the city, but at least I could easily collect my mail.
• I helped my friend John on some film projects he was working on. 
• I was paid for the first time for a cat-sitting gig. 

• September 2013: 
• Like most tumultuous Septembers- this one was filled with more confusing mistakes, more pining for someone nearby to hold me, more dissatisfaction with the ones who were nearby holding me, a lot of late night walks around NYC, a lot of cat-sitting in Brooklyn, and the heavy question, still, of "When did I become so academic? Did I give up on art? Who am I still? Who am I anymore?"  
• I bought a ticket to South Africa for winter break. I basically told my identity crisis to fuck off. 
• October 2013: 
• This was a time where friendships between good friends were strained and this was heavy on me because functioning happily when people I loved were at odds with one another felt impossible. Somehow I said something that seemed to mend the strained relationships. 
• I traveled for the first time by bus to North Carolina to see the boy. As always it was a sweet and sour mixture of elation and depression. 
• FINALLY I decided to go to my first session at the gym (because it was about to expire from when I bought the deal, four months earlier, in June). I finally felt centered, structured and excited to begin my early mornings right with new people who cared about similar things. 
• I started a brief position as poetry mentor for the Poetry Outreach Center - providing a poetry lesson once a week to a class of 1st graders for six weeks. 
• I also started working as a librarian assistant part-time on an off-campus facility for CCNY. This was also in addition to my current position as an academic probation advisor at another CUNY campus. 
• I successfully made my first grape pie!  
• November 2013:
• I attended the first wedding of a close friend of mine. It was like a strange mini High School reunion.
  
• I spent Thanksgiving in Santa Ana, California with Danny. I officiated his off-beat wedding with Kenny and we spent our time together running a 5k Turkey Trot, exploring mud caves, camping in mountain station huts, and early Christmas celebrating.
  
• December 2013: 
• I returned to New York from California and helped my friend Sean at a table read for a new screenplay he was working on. 
• My estranged grandmother became ill and I drove my brother and mother upstate to Schenectady to handle the logistics.
• I took a bus immediately afterwards to North Carolina to spend the winter solstice and Christmas with the boy.  
• I break the ice and told the boy I loved him. He loved me back. We spent a full week together and explored Raleigh, Chapel Hill, and attempted to climb Grandfather Mountain but it was closed. 
  
• I flew off to Johannesburg, South Africa and spent New Year's Eve alone with a glass of red wine and a mango in a stranger's (soon-to-be friend's) home. 

• January 2014:
• Braai's, braai's, braai's. Camping, camping, camping. With friends and their family.
• Reunited with Bradley (from Georgian days) after three long years. We explored Berlin Falls, Blyde Canyon, St. Lucia, swam in the Indian Ocean, saw all the wildlife, climbed Table Mountain, road tripped throughout South Africa on Rt. 62, Knsyna, Kalk Bay, Robberg Island to track down the seals, Milwood Forest for tannin lake swims, and reunited with Grant. 
  
• Drove and camped through Botswana with Ryan, explored Victoria Falls, survived a hike with baboons, crossed the footbridge bridge into Zimbabwe, wandered down suburban streets in Lusaka, Zambia. 
  
• I flew back to New York and immediately went back to work and began the fourth semester of Grad School. 
• February 2014:
• For the first time ever I had my own health insurance! 
• After a 2 1/2 month hiatus I returned to the gym. 
• Like most trips south, I hopped on a last minute bus to North Carolina for the boy. It was the first time I felt like we were a real couple. We explored Raven Rock State Park. 
• Helped John with filming his movie.
• Took a bus upstate to check in on mother, brother, and grandmother.  
• March 2014:
• Returned from upstate to cat-sit some more in Brooklyn. 
• Turned 28. Surprisingly - did not have my annual identity crisis.
• Did my first 30-day challenge for the gym. Results were skewed due to impending injuries and sicknesses. 
• The boy and I, again, clarified that we were indeed in a real, exclusive relationship. This time it actually felt real and right. Saying the title "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" still took time to adjust to. 
• I injured my wrist, took myself to the ER for the first time to relieve a finger infection, and suffered what felt like a never ending chest cold. MMA/kickboxing training comes to a slow halt. 
• April 2014:
• I caught up with an old boss from the Jim Henson Company. I felt pleased with my life-progress report. 
• I traveled to Bogota, Colombia for a few days to attend a wedding. 
  
• The boy flew to New York, and I managed to find a beautiful home to stay in for Easter in upstate Deposit. 
• My wrist injury turned into a never ending saga of full arm pain. 
• I agreed to help organize my Ten Year High School Reunion taking place in October.
• I was informed that my collection of stories (The Impersonator, Yalla Habibi, The Burrower, MINE: A Bosnian Memory about Strangers, and I Remember That One Time...) is awarded The David Dortort Prize in (Non-Fiction) Creative Writing as well as the Henry Roth Memorial Scholarship (see theme : "immigrant" experience) totaling to the baffling amount of $2300. 
• May 2014:
• I signed on to be President for the CCNY MFA Reading Series for the next academic year.
• I participated in my first mud-run, Mudderella. I fell in love with mud.
  
• I started occupational therapy for my busted up arm (to no avail). 
• I explored Bloomingdales for the first time (I was not impressed) and was converted to the land of moisturizer because...age. 
• I began participating more in paid studies because...money. 
• I purchased my very first plant which turned into two plants (because...love) and I accidentally need them Sally and Harry.
  
• My slight-heart condition from eight years prior was shifted from mild to basically non-existent.
• Completed my first Spartan Race! 
  
• Ended the second year of Graduate School on a better note. I wrote a lot more content due to the constant urging from a dedicated instructor. I wrote a homage to Nora Ephron, and stories about Bosnia, Long Island mental institutions, Egypt, and office life. I also uncovered my affection for Mark Twain. 

• June 2014:
• Gym, occupational therapy, paid studies. Repeated. 
• Drove to Schenectady to check in on the family.
• I wore a bikini for the first time in years down on Fire Island. 
• Engaged in livid arguments with the boy. The struggle of participating in a long-distance relationship proved consistently to be a roller coaster of elation and heartache. 
• I flew one way to North Carolina for 9 days for the boy. Drove to South Carolina, celebrated the Summer Solstice in Wilmington, loved Greensboro, participated in very couple-y things like photo-booth photos and going to movies.
• An annotated version of The Burrower was posted in two parts on the Billfold and I get paid (again) for a story that I wrote!
• July 2014:
• Part II of The Burrower was posted online. 
• Returned to Long Island and visited the Bronx Zoo. I left feeling confused about whether or not I enjoyed it. 
• Hopped back on an (extremely last minute) bus in a torrential rain storm to North Carolina to spend fourth of July with the boy. I arranged for a lovely waterfall hike near Morganton and Durham.
• Explored Mattituck and Greenport (again) on Long Island. 
• Participated in the Lozilu Mud Run!
  
   
• Arranged for the Word-Farm writer's retreat in Poughquag, New York with my friend Brendan, which involved us eating a lot of sweet things, me collecting chicken eggs, sleeping in a hammock, and managing "domestic bliss" (dishes and laundry). 
• Father picked me up in Kingston, New York and we drove straight to Venice, Florida. We detoured a bit in Fayetteville, North Carolina to leave a scavenger hunt for the boy and to find our own treats at South of the Border in Dillon, South Carolina. 
• Reunited with Mark (from Georgian days) after three long years. 
• Embarked on my first cruise with father to Nassau, Bahamas, explored the Everglades, the Keys, and Hemingway. Dove with the dolphins.
  
• After returning father to Long Island I turned around and drove straight back south to North Carolina for the boy.  
• August 2014:
• This was a new record for me and the boy. We were able to see one another three months in a row. We threw one another scavenger hunts. Together, we drove to South Carolina to explore the strange wonders of South of the Border.
• I drove straight back to New York City, arriving on time for the next morning's first day of ESL class (instructing for the third summer). I worked with a wide mixture of Turkish teenage girls.
• I made the decision to quit hormones and start life again as a free-range woman to see if it would help ease my ailments. 
• Construction began on the 2nd floor of the Long Island home (that was uprooted from Sandy). This forced me to go through everything that I had been saving for the last 28 years (and everything else that I put on pause when Sandy hit two years before). I made some interesting discoveries. I began the month-long process of converting the old space into a new writing space.  From this: 
  
• To this: 
  
• Started the third year (fifth semester!) of Grad School. I embraced the art of poetry.

• September 2014:
• Migraines with auras returned throwing everything off-balance again. Both arms decided to stop trying to heal. Pain. A lot of pain. 
• Attempted, once again, to understand the food stamp process so I can feed myself.
• Attended the Slice Literary Conference for the 3rd time on scholarship. This time felt like I was closer to feeling like a real writer. 
• Made more coasters! 
  
• Kicked off the new CCNY MFA Reading Series program. 
• After, yet again, another 3 month hiatus I returned to the gym! 
• I read for Sean's table-read, his collaboration with another playwright.
• Helped Brendan at home on the UWS adjust to non-hospital/broken-leg life. 
• Returned to Schenectady to check in on mother, grandmother, and brother. All three of them at some point this month have suffered some sort of injury or sickness.

And imagine more of the same- a lot of back-and-forth between Long Island, upstate, and New York City. Plus the multitude of doctor visits. 

With the Fall equinox officially underway I accept the end of this summer and allow for my leaves to whither, crunch, move, listen. I'm ready, finally, for a new change. I'm ready for the few moments of consistency again. I'm ready to hopefully not feel so exhausted, if possible. 

The Cadence of April

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

                                                                                           -T.S. Eliot  The Waste Land


Five days ago I started to write about my relationship with the month of April. My latest burst of productivity inspired me to examine what exactly it is about April that gets me moving.

And then the Boston Marathon Explosion happened.

Folks sometimes worry about leaving America. The world is such a scary place! Reports from Syria, Iraq, North Korea, etc, etc, etc can cripple the masses into believing that the only safe place, the only safe country on planet Earth, is here in the good ole U.S.of A. I don't know if it's because I'm getting older or the fact that virtually everything is digitized and instantaneous enabling us to know what's going on everywhere at every moment, but I gotta say...America is pretty darn scary and I have always felt more frightened living here than I did anywhere else in the 20 countries that I've been to or have lived in. Granted, I am aware that not all attacks in America are conducted by American citizens nor are all attacks abroad are conducted by the citizens of those countries...but I am consistently left feeling that in many ways we're no different from any of those scary and dangerous countries.

Of course every person is different just as every country will affect someone in very different ways. There's always a bad side, part, area and a good side, part, area of any town, village, city, or country. I'd like to believe that if you're aware of this fact and do your research your chances of getting involved with any sort of danger has a chance of decreasing. Of course that isn't a guarantee.   

I accepted a teaching position two years after the war in Georgia ended. I moved there despite the warnings from friends, family, and the media. On many reports listing the World's Dangerous Countries Georgia was listed, even as recently from a year a half ago. Having lived and traveled extensively throughout the country for a year and some change this seemed outdated and inaccurate. How many other places are misconstrued the same way?

Everyday something reminds me that sometimes there's a fuck-ton of bad out there but it never comes without some sort of good. I know, I know, it's sort of Hallmark-y and kitschy but it's not wrong, right?

I recently read an article on NPR titled The Cruelest Month in which the author lists the strange repetition of dark and grisly events to continuously occur in the month of April. Seeing it streamlined in this way definitely solidifies T.S. Eliot's case for declaring April as the cruelest month. But, for me personally, I have a very different relationship with April.

I am attuned rather well to the ebbs and flows, to the repetitions, to the coincidences that occur in my life. There is a cycle that exists and I would be a really poor observer if I didn't acknowledge that fact. Nobody wants to feel stuck repeating the same mistakes or events over and over again, and unfortunately I occasionally do, but I am also struck with the same manic rush of energy and productivity year after year- always in April.

Is it the beckoning of Spring?
The extra hours of daylight?
The realization that the dark cave of Winter is now beyond me and it's time to catch up on the many months of delayed creativity?
Is it the perseverance, stubbornness, and determination to subconsciously fight against the labels of the cruelest month?     

Perhaps.

All I know is that in April I am left feeling utterly and completely inspired to carry forth. To keep moving. To move on. Sometimes I forget that this is my relationship with April time and time again.

I recently went digging through boxes. There was one box full of postcards I had mailed to myself from my many travels across America and the globe. In this particular collection there was a plethora from April 2010. It was the first Spring I did not spend in New York.


Back in February of 2010 I had landed into a really tricky and dangerous situation that in turn led to the beginning of a heavy identity crisis/mental melt-down. I had placed myself in a multitude of toxic situations and relationships. Two of the three employers I worked for were, in a word, terrible. Borderline sociopath-ic terrible. I had absolutely no idea how to still handle my sexuality with any human being and engaging in a 'relationship' with someone twenty years older than me and who signed my paycheck was definitely not the absolute correct path to take at that time. The incidents that followed ended up being just the beginning to a long list of moments that often began with the thought "Well, this may not be a good idea...but, it will end up being a good story." It was often my go-to excuse for when I wasn't feeling confident about which decision I should make. It also paved the way for my occasional absence in New York and in America. I often wouldn't or couldn't stay in New York for longer than two or three months at a time. This continued for the next three years. Looking back during what now feels like a dark time I am not embarrassed or frightened any more. I feel proud because the last three years, despite the extreme dark lows, have provided so many glorious things. I have probably lived more purely and solely for myself in the last three to four years then the previous ten.

I ran away to Arizona, a state I had always had a strange fascination with. The name consistently brought forth images of freedom, of jean-short beauties standing amongst cactus, of tousled hair in the wind. I needed the infinite sun-drenched horizon. My excuse to my friends and family for quitting everything, picking up and running away to Arizona for about a month and a half was to finish my children's novel (end date: still nowhere in sight). I didn't mention the fact that my mental state was deteriorating drastically and that if I stayed any longer in New York I was terrified about what would happen to me. I abandoned the pressure of dead-end jobs, dead-end people, the romanticism that someone new would save me and left for Tucson where my best friend Danny was living. I would stay with him and explore a new frame of mind. I felt the need to become more withdrawn. I felt the need to become more protective. I wanted to appease my own desires instead of searching for answers in an imaginary figure. 

Danny and I drove for days in the desert, throughout Arizona, Utah and New Mexico. We often abandoned our plans to drive left when we should have driven right.

We hiked into low valleys and climbed to the tip-top of peaks that stood well over 9,000 feet.

We stretched our legs and climbed until we ran out of space.

"You are a warrior," Danny would preach to me.
"I am a different type of warrior. I have to accept that I can't do certain things," I'd respond sadly.
He'd shake his head angrily. "That's bullshit. You're capable and you know it. In my mind you are a fierce warrior. You always have been. You need to start getting what you want."

At times I feared Danny's approach was too selfish and too insensitive. But eventually I began to realize that there is no excuse for not treating yourself with respect. There is no reason why we shouldn't do what we feel is best for us- even if those things aren't, at times, acceptable. I had been living my life solely for others but neglected to strike a balance between them and me.


I fell in love with literature. I discovered my voice did exist in the familiarity of Douglas Spaulding's thoughts. The penned poetry of Ray Bradbury... the scents of smoldering memories lost in the pact-in sands and dust of the desert...it was the therapy necessary to reclaim my mind.


The postcards addressed to myself prove it. Eventually I gave up on dating the postcards- perhaps because I felt that these sentiments shouldn't be tied down to a specific frame of time, but rather a consistent way of feeling and thinking. It shouldn't just be tied down to April.

April 19, 2010

"And enchanted you were! Life is moving like a hummingbird and it's time- there is always time- to start humming along with it- to fly in freedom and scream at the top of your lungs."

April 25, 2010

"But there is 
still too much to see and marvel at, the world very much alive in the bright light and wind, exultant with the  fever of spring, the delight of morning...Love flowers best in openness and freedom." -Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire

April 26, 2010

 "The extreme clarity of the desert light is equaled by the extreme individuation of desert life forms." -Edward Abbey

April 26, 2010

"Go See America! And don't return until you do!"

April 26, 2010

"We climb down into the canyons to remind ourselves that there is a way back up and out to the cliff where there we can view everything we ever will need to carry on."

April 28, 2010

"Do not deny yourself happiness. Continue to live with your eyes wide open. Climb. Get up. Get out."

April 29, 2010

"'I want to feel all there is to feel,' he thought. 'I mustn't forget, I'm alive. I know I'm alive. I mustn't forget it tonight or tomorrow or the day after that.' Always remember, that you are breathing for one more glorious day and you have the opportunity to smell the upcoming rain blossoming again."Quote from Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine

 "And
 everything, absolutely everything, was there. The world, like a great iris of an even more gigantic eye, which was also just opened and stretched out to encompass everything, stared back at him. And he knew what it was that had leaped upon him to stay and would not run away now. 'I'm alive,' he thought." Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine


And that is precisely how I felt. I felt alive and I didn't feel guilty for feeling as such. I didn't feel like running away then and as much as traveling and movement is engrained in every ounce of my body I don't feel like running away now. Every day I am training. Every day I am practicing my fierce warrior face.

 It is not an easy thing to love one self. It shouldn't be so hard, but at times it is.

One evening Danny and I decided to drive along a path on Mount Lemmon to watch the sunset and listen to Tucson cool down. In the sand and dirt he found this broken tile.
 

"I love you with all my heart. Forever & Always."

We're all broken. Individually. Collectively. As countries. As nations. But, I am consistently reminded that we are never as broken as we take ourselves to be.

I do not mind April mixing my memory and desires. I don't fear her stirring up my dull roots with spring rain. Sometimes, I need the agitation to get myself moving again.