Right now, nothing.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
A Passive-Aggressive Letter to My Roommate
Dear Stupid Bitch,
You're almost twenty years old. And yet, you just graduated from high school two months ago.
I don't know the circumstances of why you are not in the usual age range of high school graduates, but I'm going to assume it is because you are a fucking moron. I think that is a safe assumption.
Please get this through your head: you are an idiot. I have met some stupid people in my day but you seem more like a high-functioning retard, but I don't want to insult retards so I will just say listening to you talk hurts my brain more than the ridiculous shit I just took after eating 20 hot wings at Hooters this afternoon hurt my ass. That's a lot of pain.
You live at college, with college students, but you don't go to college. I don't know whether you're actually "taking a year off" or you just "got laughed out of the admissions process at every college in America, southeast Asia, and probably even central Africa," but I am going to go with the latter, because "taking a year off" implies that anyone would ever disrespect their college enough to let you in, and that won't happen.
You washed the dishes, and put all the cups right-side-up in the drying rack, and I said, "Actually, if you turn them upside down they dry better," trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, trying not to insult you to your face, you replied with, "What? Why?" And I replied with, "Gravity." Because, you know, water rolls down. So if you turn the cups upside down, the water rolls out. And you gave me a blank stare, and shrugged, and walked out of the kitchen. I said to myself, maybe she just has never washed her own dishes. She did, after all, just move out of her parents' house.
You came into my room at seven in the morning asking if I would drive you downtown. And when I said no you said it was too late for you to take the bus and you were counting on me to drive you because I told you I could always give you a ride if you needed it. Which is true, but I meant "in emergency situations" and "not ever, ever, at seven in the morning." So I drove you. And told you not to do it again. But you did it two days later. By barging into my room at seven in the morning.
You told all our roommates that I was "acting like a whore" after I took off my shirt for five minutes after losing a game of strip beer pong. And no one else had their shirt on either. In fact, I was the most clothed of anyone involved in that game. That was the beginning of the end of my patience for you. I am sorry that you look like you are pregnant so you must wear baggy shirts at all times, but I am not sorry that at four in the morning in my own house I thought that I could do what I wanted. I am not sorry that the only reason you're mad is because your guy friends started ignoring you at that point, and still paid attention to me even after I put my shirt back on. I am sorry that you were stupid enough to say this in front of our other roommates who weren't there and so took your word over mine, because now I will make it my life's mission to make your life a real-world version of the fiery pits of hell.
But what really did it, what really convinced me that a dog would not only be able to hold a more intelligent conversation than you, but would also be infinitely better company, was when you said the phrase, "I don't condone poverty."
You said people make the choice to be poor. That anyone who really wanted a job, could get one. You cited a story you heard about a friend of a friend of a cousin of a chronic masturbator who once sat next to Johnny Depp on the subway who showed up to LA with five cents in their pocket and became a millionaire. And that story was your proof that people choose to be poor.
I, dear roommate, don't condone your continued thievery of oxygen that could be better used to serve society by fueling forest fires or cleaning out the dust under the keys on my laptop, but I'm not stupid enough to think that I can just choose to kill you.
I am currently one class away from fulfilling the requirements for getting a Bachelor's of Science in Economics at one of the best universities in the country, and you tried to outsmart me on economic theory.
You said that anyone could just get a job at McDonald's and then they wouldn't be poor anymore and anyone who was homeless was homeless because they were lazy. I pointed out the 12% unemployment rate in California as proof that those jobs just aren't there. I was going to discuss underemployment with you but I don't think you could even figure out what that compound word means and I didn't want to embarrass you.
I reminded you about natural disasters (Katrina), personal disasters (getting sick with no/little insurance, going through a nasty divorce), just shit luck (getting laid off when you're used to making 6 or 7 figures), poor government programs (shelters that get full, food kitchens that run out), and everything else I could think of, and you said, "Let's just agree to disagree."
You said people should just be more responsible, save up, and live within their means. You said all this to me the day you overdrafted your checking account. Two weeks after you moved out of your parents' house.
The bacteria living inside your intestines probably think you're dimwitted.
But, dear roommate, I will not launch an all-out assault on your psychological well-being just yet. Because I have faith that God is about to smack you upside the head. Because you are starting work in a high school in Watts in two weeks.
And I absolutely cannot wait for you to tell the teenagers you teach in fucking Watts that it's their fault that they're poor. If you're still alive that afternoon to tell me about how wrong you were, then I will try to forgive and forget.
Sincerely,
Messy Girl.
You're almost twenty years old. And yet, you just graduated from high school two months ago.
I don't know the circumstances of why you are not in the usual age range of high school graduates, but I'm going to assume it is because you are a fucking moron. I think that is a safe assumption.
Please get this through your head: you are an idiot. I have met some stupid people in my day but you seem more like a high-functioning retard, but I don't want to insult retards so I will just say listening to you talk hurts my brain more than the ridiculous shit I just took after eating 20 hot wings at Hooters this afternoon hurt my ass. That's a lot of pain.
You live at college, with college students, but you don't go to college. I don't know whether you're actually "taking a year off" or you just "got laughed out of the admissions process at every college in America, southeast Asia, and probably even central Africa," but I am going to go with the latter, because "taking a year off" implies that anyone would ever disrespect their college enough to let you in, and that won't happen.
You washed the dishes, and put all the cups right-side-up in the drying rack, and I said, "Actually, if you turn them upside down they dry better," trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, trying not to insult you to your face, you replied with, "What? Why?" And I replied with, "Gravity." Because, you know, water rolls down. So if you turn the cups upside down, the water rolls out. And you gave me a blank stare, and shrugged, and walked out of the kitchen. I said to myself, maybe she just has never washed her own dishes. She did, after all, just move out of her parents' house.
You came into my room at seven in the morning asking if I would drive you downtown. And when I said no you said it was too late for you to take the bus and you were counting on me to drive you because I told you I could always give you a ride if you needed it. Which is true, but I meant "in emergency situations" and "not ever, ever, at seven in the morning." So I drove you. And told you not to do it again. But you did it two days later. By barging into my room at seven in the morning.
You told all our roommates that I was "acting like a whore" after I took off my shirt for five minutes after losing a game of strip beer pong. And no one else had their shirt on either. In fact, I was the most clothed of anyone involved in that game. That was the beginning of the end of my patience for you. I am sorry that you look like you are pregnant so you must wear baggy shirts at all times, but I am not sorry that at four in the morning in my own house I thought that I could do what I wanted. I am not sorry that the only reason you're mad is because your guy friends started ignoring you at that point, and still paid attention to me even after I put my shirt back on. I am sorry that you were stupid enough to say this in front of our other roommates who weren't there and so took your word over mine, because now I will make it my life's mission to make your life a real-world version of the fiery pits of hell.
But what really did it, what really convinced me that a dog would not only be able to hold a more intelligent conversation than you, but would also be infinitely better company, was when you said the phrase, "I don't condone poverty."
You said people make the choice to be poor. That anyone who really wanted a job, could get one. You cited a story you heard about a friend of a friend of a cousin of a chronic masturbator who once sat next to Johnny Depp on the subway who showed up to LA with five cents in their pocket and became a millionaire. And that story was your proof that people choose to be poor.
I, dear roommate, don't condone your continued thievery of oxygen that could be better used to serve society by fueling forest fires or cleaning out the dust under the keys on my laptop, but I'm not stupid enough to think that I can just choose to kill you.
I am currently one class away from fulfilling the requirements for getting a Bachelor's of Science in Economics at one of the best universities in the country, and you tried to outsmart me on economic theory.
You said that anyone could just get a job at McDonald's and then they wouldn't be poor anymore and anyone who was homeless was homeless because they were lazy. I pointed out the 12% unemployment rate in California as proof that those jobs just aren't there. I was going to discuss underemployment with you but I don't think you could even figure out what that compound word means and I didn't want to embarrass you.
I reminded you about natural disasters (Katrina), personal disasters (getting sick with no/little insurance, going through a nasty divorce), just shit luck (getting laid off when you're used to making 6 or 7 figures), poor government programs (shelters that get full, food kitchens that run out), and everything else I could think of, and you said, "Let's just agree to disagree."
You said people should just be more responsible, save up, and live within their means. You said all this to me the day you overdrafted your checking account. Two weeks after you moved out of your parents' house.
The bacteria living inside your intestines probably think you're dimwitted.
But, dear roommate, I will not launch an all-out assault on your psychological well-being just yet. Because I have faith that God is about to smack you upside the head. Because you are starting work in a high school in Watts in two weeks.
And I absolutely cannot wait for you to tell the teenagers you teach in fucking Watts that it's their fault that they're poor. If you're still alive that afternoon to tell me about how wrong you were, then I will try to forgive and forget.
Sincerely,
Messy Girl.
It's a Beautiful Night in the Neighborhood...
I live on a busy street near USC in Los Angeles. When you live anywhere near USC, of course, you hear sirens constantly. That's no big deal. You see people getting arrested in front of your house when you leave for class in the morning or come home from a party at night. Whatever. Shit happens. Last year someone was stabbed to death two blocks away from my house. That was a little bit more upsetting than the usual but I can't say anyone was surprised.
Tonight, though, something cool happened.
My friend and I were upstairs in my room when we heard tires screeching (not uncommon) and then a huge fucking crash (uncommon). So of course we're already up and running down the stairs to see this but then immediately after the crash we hear sirens. Which is weird, you know, because usually you have to call the cops before they show up so this meant the cops were already following the guy which could only mean he was a law-abiding US citizen and would pull over and be compliant and provide me and my friend with absolutely no entertainment for the evening.
But just in case, we went downstairs anyway.
We got downstairs just in time to see seven cruisers hauling ass down the road with lights and sirens. Awesome. Then we start looking for the car that got hit. We see a car with its hazards on, parked in front of a driveway, with no one inside. Okay, we figure, this guy must have seen what happened and got out to talk to the cops. But where is the car that got hit? And where is this car's driver?
There's probably about fifty USC kids standing outside now, or leaning out of windows, all wondering what the fuck just happened when finally my friend and I think we should check the other side of the car, just in case.
And we realized why it was parked in a driveway.
It had been parked legally. And then it got nailed so hard it was pushed back ten feet. And the driver's side front wheel had been completely disconnected from the rest of the car and was hanging awkwardly at an angle. And the whole engine block was crumpled in on the driver's side. And those hazards were actually the car alarm going off but there was so much noise and confusion nobody had noticed this.
Oh yeah, and this car can't have been more than a year old. Its plates started with 6E. I bought my car in April, and its plates didn't come in until August (the dealer failed miserably) and they start with 6G. So, you know, E, F, G, that car's new. Really new. And really totaled.
So campus police comes and makes a report but they can't figure out whose car it is so they call LAPD and around the same time LAPD gets there, so does a private company that takes pictures of post-police-pursuit-accidents, and there is an epic throwdown between a pissed-off sergeant and the guy taking pictures and I thought for sure someone was gonna get beat down but eventually the cop realized that even though the guy was an asshole he was taking pictures from across the street and not fucking up the scene at all so he let him go and for like, two hours there was all this commotion five feet from my front door and it was so exciting but eventually we got exhausted and went back inside and when we came back out the cops were gone.
But the car was still there. Blocking the driveway. Apparently, they couldn't contact the owner, so they just said fuck it and left.
All of this was an awesome way to spend my night as it was, of course, until I realized that I was parked behind this very driveway, and if the driver had been ten feet off, it would have been my brand new car that got totaled. And not that I'm happy that anyone should have to come back to their car tomorrow morning and see that, but oh my sweet Jesus am I glad that I don't have to find the $1,000 for my deductible and pay sky-high premium rates for getting a brand-new car totaled within a year.
I wondered why when I registered my car in the Valley my insurance went down $100/month from when I was at school. Now I know.
Tonight, though, something cool happened.
My friend and I were upstairs in my room when we heard tires screeching (not uncommon) and then a huge fucking crash (uncommon). So of course we're already up and running down the stairs to see this but then immediately after the crash we hear sirens. Which is weird, you know, because usually you have to call the cops before they show up so this meant the cops were already following the guy which could only mean he was a law-abiding US citizen and would pull over and be compliant and provide me and my friend with absolutely no entertainment for the evening.
But just in case, we went downstairs anyway.
We got downstairs just in time to see seven cruisers hauling ass down the road with lights and sirens. Awesome. Then we start looking for the car that got hit. We see a car with its hazards on, parked in front of a driveway, with no one inside. Okay, we figure, this guy must have seen what happened and got out to talk to the cops. But where is the car that got hit? And where is this car's driver?
There's probably about fifty USC kids standing outside now, or leaning out of windows, all wondering what the fuck just happened when finally my friend and I think we should check the other side of the car, just in case.
And we realized why it was parked in a driveway.
It had been parked legally. And then it got nailed so hard it was pushed back ten feet. And the driver's side front wheel had been completely disconnected from the rest of the car and was hanging awkwardly at an angle. And the whole engine block was crumpled in on the driver's side. And those hazards were actually the car alarm going off but there was so much noise and confusion nobody had noticed this.
Oh yeah, and this car can't have been more than a year old. Its plates started with 6E. I bought my car in April, and its plates didn't come in until August (the dealer failed miserably) and they start with 6G. So, you know, E, F, G, that car's new. Really new. And really totaled.
So campus police comes and makes a report but they can't figure out whose car it is so they call LAPD and around the same time LAPD gets there, so does a private company that takes pictures of post-police-pursuit-accidents, and there is an epic throwdown between a pissed-off sergeant and the guy taking pictures and I thought for sure someone was gonna get beat down but eventually the cop realized that even though the guy was an asshole he was taking pictures from across the street and not fucking up the scene at all so he let him go and for like, two hours there was all this commotion five feet from my front door and it was so exciting but eventually we got exhausted and went back inside and when we came back out the cops were gone.
But the car was still there. Blocking the driveway. Apparently, they couldn't contact the owner, so they just said fuck it and left.
All of this was an awesome way to spend my night as it was, of course, until I realized that I was parked behind this very driveway, and if the driver had been ten feet off, it would have been my brand new car that got totaled. And not that I'm happy that anyone should have to come back to their car tomorrow morning and see that, but oh my sweet Jesus am I glad that I don't have to find the $1,000 for my deductible and pay sky-high premium rates for getting a brand-new car totaled within a year.
I wondered why when I registered my car in the Valley my insurance went down $100/month from when I was at school. Now I know.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
One More Thing
"Murderers are not monsters, they're men. And that's the most frightening thing about them."
-Alice Sebold
Things I am grateful for today:
My self-control
My gift of gab
-Alice Sebold
Things I am grateful for today:
My self-control
My gift of gab
Oh, Good Lord
I am religious.
Very religious.
I am not a Bible-beating, soapbox-standing, convert-the-heathens, accept-Jesus-or-you'll-go-to-Hell-forever religious kind of Christian. More like an I-should-have-died-about-four-times-now-but-God-keeps-me-alive-for-a-reason-so-I-guess-there-is-a-God-after-all kind of Christian. I can guarantee you that's about five times as powerful.
Actually, one of my best friends recently told me that the only reason he believes in God is because I've died on the table so many times and yet somehow, I end up getting released from the hospital within three days every time and I'm A-OK.
Today, one of my Christian roommates and I were talking. Over drinks (I had two! And stopped. So I'm thinking maybe I'm not an alcoholic and maybe just a depressed twenty-year-old). After the two of us had made a pretty solid stance against our (hammered) Muslim roommate about why we believe in a Christian God and not his God (going into it will only deeply upset me), the Muslim roommate gave up and went upstairs and the Christian and I were sitting alone talking.
This friend is an EMT and wants to be a doctor. And the story I told all my roommates about my hospitalization was that it was an alcohol-induced seizure. Which is true, as far as I know, but I don't remember a damn thing. It's what the nurses told me. He was very upset that I was drinking and told me he wasn't equipped to take care of me if I had another seizure.
I said I didn't think that would happen (because as far as I know the seizure was from the fuckton of pills I took, not the booze).
He asked why.
I chose not to divulge my little suicide attempt.
He asked why again.
I told him to mind his own business.
He said, "What, it's not like you got roofied."
Which set me off, because I have been, and I don't like those kinds of jokes.
So I told him to fuck off.
And his response was, "Why would you put yourself in that kind of situation?"
As if I had voluntarily gotten roofied. As if I had asked someone to spike my drink and fuck me while I was passed out. As if I hadn't been drugged when I wasn't looking and, possibly most cruelly of all, when I was otherwise completely sober. Yeah, because I asked to get raped. Asshole. I have never, in the year since it happened, encountered someone who blamed me for what happened (well, except the cops) and I didn't expect the blame to come from a fellow Christian.
So I was all angry and bitter, and wondering how I would ever continue living in this house with a roommate who blames me for being randomly victimized by a piece of shit I didn't even know, and I was fuming and locked myself in my room and considering doing some more serious harm to that good ol' liver of mine (just quickening the inevitable, really) when I remembered a line from Lucky, Alice Sebold's memoir, which I read before my little incident happened.
"You save yourself or you remain unsaved."
And I realized that once I had opened my mouth to this boy to tell him the truth about what really happened, I had been expecting him to save me. To tell me that it was absolutely fucking tragic that such a terrible thing had happened to me, and to give me a hug, and to tell me it would be okay, and fall in love with me because I have such an awful story and look at the odds I have overcome and so on and so forth and I want to vomit now when I look back at my thought process (of three hours ago) and I can't believe it had ever even crossed my subconscious to think that someone else's pity could fix the way I feel.
Only I (and Jesus) can save myself.
That's at once empowering, and lonely.
Very religious.
I am not a Bible-beating, soapbox-standing, convert-the-heathens, accept-Jesus-or-you'll-go-to-Hell-forever religious kind of Christian. More like an I-should-have-died-about-four-times-now-but-God-keeps-me-alive-for-a-reason-so-I-guess-there-is-a-God-after-all kind of Christian. I can guarantee you that's about five times as powerful.
Actually, one of my best friends recently told me that the only reason he believes in God is because I've died on the table so many times and yet somehow, I end up getting released from the hospital within three days every time and I'm A-OK.
Today, one of my Christian roommates and I were talking. Over drinks (I had two! And stopped. So I'm thinking maybe I'm not an alcoholic and maybe just a depressed twenty-year-old). After the two of us had made a pretty solid stance against our (hammered) Muslim roommate about why we believe in a Christian God and not his God (going into it will only deeply upset me), the Muslim roommate gave up and went upstairs and the Christian and I were sitting alone talking.
This friend is an EMT and wants to be a doctor. And the story I told all my roommates about my hospitalization was that it was an alcohol-induced seizure. Which is true, as far as I know, but I don't remember a damn thing. It's what the nurses told me. He was very upset that I was drinking and told me he wasn't equipped to take care of me if I had another seizure.
I said I didn't think that would happen (because as far as I know the seizure was from the fuckton of pills I took, not the booze).
He asked why.
I chose not to divulge my little suicide attempt.
He asked why again.
I told him to mind his own business.
He said, "What, it's not like you got roofied."
Which set me off, because I have been, and I don't like those kinds of jokes.
So I told him to fuck off.
And his response was, "Why would you put yourself in that kind of situation?"
As if I had voluntarily gotten roofied. As if I had asked someone to spike my drink and fuck me while I was passed out. As if I hadn't been drugged when I wasn't looking and, possibly most cruelly of all, when I was otherwise completely sober. Yeah, because I asked to get raped. Asshole. I have never, in the year since it happened, encountered someone who blamed me for what happened (well, except the cops) and I didn't expect the blame to come from a fellow Christian.
So I was all angry and bitter, and wondering how I would ever continue living in this house with a roommate who blames me for being randomly victimized by a piece of shit I didn't even know, and I was fuming and locked myself in my room and considering doing some more serious harm to that good ol' liver of mine (just quickening the inevitable, really) when I remembered a line from Lucky, Alice Sebold's memoir, which I read before my little incident happened.
"You save yourself or you remain unsaved."
And I realized that once I had opened my mouth to this boy to tell him the truth about what really happened, I had been expecting him to save me. To tell me that it was absolutely fucking tragic that such a terrible thing had happened to me, and to give me a hug, and to tell me it would be okay, and fall in love with me because I have such an awful story and look at the odds I have overcome and so on and so forth and I want to vomit now when I look back at my thought process (of three hours ago) and I can't believe it had ever even crossed my subconscious to think that someone else's pity could fix the way I feel.
Only I (and Jesus) can save myself.
That's at once empowering, and lonely.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Effing Naps
I knew I would be out late tonight for stupid job training. So I took a nap this afternoon.
Well, I was out late.
But apparently my nap was way too efficient, and now I am fully awake at two o'clock in the morning, and I need to be up at six.
Things I am grateful for tonight:
Actually having a new job to get trained for.
My grumpy roommate, whose complaints inspired me to look on the bright side of my life so I wouldn't sound like such a whiny piece of shit.
My not-grumpy roommate, who cooked a ton of pasta and left it in the fridge and told me I could have some if I wanted, which I did, because when I got home from job training I hadn't eaten in like twelve hours and was in no mood to cook for myself.
The people who read my blog. Thanks for reminding me, on a daily basis, that I am not alone. Both of you.
Well, I was out late.
But apparently my nap was way too efficient, and now I am fully awake at two o'clock in the morning, and I need to be up at six.
Things I am grateful for tonight:
Actually having a new job to get trained for.
My grumpy roommate, whose complaints inspired me to look on the bright side of my life so I wouldn't sound like such a whiny piece of shit.
My not-grumpy roommate, who cooked a ton of pasta and left it in the fridge and told me I could have some if I wanted, which I did, because when I got home from job training I hadn't eaten in like twelve hours and was in no mood to cook for myself.
The people who read my blog. Thanks for reminding me, on a daily basis, that I am not alone. Both of you.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Today is Looking Up
Sorry for my unbelievably negative attitude yesterday.
Things I am grateful for today:
Being on the right side of God's twisted sense of humor, and getting to laugh along with Him instead of being laughed at.
Hunter is coming on Friday!
Hearing from two old friends in 24 hours.
Target. Seriously, how can anyone shop there and not believe that there is a God who loves and cares for us all?
Things I am grateful for today:
Being on the right side of God's twisted sense of humor, and getting to laugh along with Him instead of being laughed at.
Hunter is coming on Friday!
Hearing from two old friends in 24 hours.
Target. Seriously, how can anyone shop there and not believe that there is a God who loves and cares for us all?
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
It Just Occured to Me...
I didn't drink more than anyone else I know. In fact, everyone I know at school is currently (on a Tuesday night!) nursing a hangover from last night because it was the end of rush and the campus police weren't paying attention. Almost everyone I know gets blacked out on a regular basis, and it's completely socially acceptable. Are all of them alcoholics? Probably not.
So what makes me one?
I got drunk at college, then got stupid and got behind the wheel. Now, I'm not defending that situation, because it is by the grace of God that I didn't kill anyone or myself, but if I hadn't gotten behind my car it would've been fine. No one would have batted an eye. Instead, because I got caught, because I left the confines of my little school, I'm an alcoholic and I can't drink anymore or else I'll get forced into state rehab (shudder). If I hadn't gotten into my car, I would've been just another college kid.
By the way - the heart/kidney/liver damage is old stuff, due to an eating disorder from which I have since recovered. I did not drink my way to organ failure by age 20, I starved myself into it from 15-19. So if you were about to say "You're an alcoholic because you did irreprable damage to your body with alcohol," you'd be mistaken.
Sorry, I seem to be especially bitter today.
So what makes me one?
I got drunk at college, then got stupid and got behind the wheel. Now, I'm not defending that situation, because it is by the grace of God that I didn't kill anyone or myself, but if I hadn't gotten behind my car it would've been fine. No one would have batted an eye. Instead, because I got caught, because I left the confines of my little school, I'm an alcoholic and I can't drink anymore or else I'll get forced into state rehab (shudder). If I hadn't gotten into my car, I would've been just another college kid.
By the way - the heart/kidney/liver damage is old stuff, due to an eating disorder from which I have since recovered. I did not drink my way to organ failure by age 20, I starved myself into it from 15-19. So if you were about to say "You're an alcoholic because you did irreprable damage to your body with alcohol," you'd be mistaken.
Sorry, I seem to be especially bitter today.
School
I hate it.
I don't understand why I have to bust my ass to take 21 units a semester just to graduate on time, when I'm going to die by the time I'm 25. I mean, who cares? I'm taking out loans and working overtime and barely scraping by on rent and car payments and still going to class more than anyone else I know and for what?
For nothing.
There are days I want to graduate on time so I can go to nursing school and maybe get a few good years in of helping other people. And then there are days like today, when I'm bitter and resentful and I just want to party because I am twenty and everyone else gets to go out and party and I have to sit in the corner and watch them and be ostracized because I can't drink anymore. People think something is wrong with me. I know tons of people who have taken a fifth year to finish their degree, and their reasons aren't that they are living with severe psychiatric problems, or that they're in and out of the hospital on a regular basis, or that their organs are failing. Their reasons are generally more along the lines of "Man, college is so fun, why would I ever want to graduate?"
And their parents put up with that and pay for that but I can't do that because my mother can't even pay her own rent, let alone mine, or my tuition, or my medical bills (don't get me started).
Ugh. I'll cut it off here.
Things I'm grateful for today: not being homeless. Yet.
I don't understand why I have to bust my ass to take 21 units a semester just to graduate on time, when I'm going to die by the time I'm 25. I mean, who cares? I'm taking out loans and working overtime and barely scraping by on rent and car payments and still going to class more than anyone else I know and for what?
For nothing.
There are days I want to graduate on time so I can go to nursing school and maybe get a few good years in of helping other people. And then there are days like today, when I'm bitter and resentful and I just want to party because I am twenty and everyone else gets to go out and party and I have to sit in the corner and watch them and be ostracized because I can't drink anymore. People think something is wrong with me. I know tons of people who have taken a fifth year to finish their degree, and their reasons aren't that they are living with severe psychiatric problems, or that they're in and out of the hospital on a regular basis, or that their organs are failing. Their reasons are generally more along the lines of "Man, college is so fun, why would I ever want to graduate?"
And their parents put up with that and pay for that but I can't do that because my mother can't even pay her own rent, let alone mine, or my tuition, or my medical bills (don't get me started).
Ugh. I'll cut it off here.
Things I'm grateful for today: not being homeless. Yet.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Up In Smoke
So I have been reading a bunch of other AA-type blogs and all of them seem to stress focusing outside of yourself, being grateful for things you usually take for granted, and whatnot.
This is extraordinarily hard for me. I grew up learning that you get what you work for, and nothing is handed to you. So I don't really know how to look at the world and say "I'm grateful for..." because somewhere, deep down inside of me, I believe that I earned it.
But here goes...
I am grateful that my dad and all his work buddies are safe (my dad works for the Los Angeles City Fire Department and was dispatched to the fire this past weekend)
I am grateful that my best friend's house is still in the "voluntary evacuation" area, and that his family is safe.
I am grateful that God sent me Nurse Pam the day I was discharged from the hospital, because I don't think I would have been ready to listen to her before that, and I don't think I would've been willing to hear what she had to say if it had come out of anyone else's mouth.
I am grateful for Parker, who has been there for me pretty much every time I've fucked up in the past two years and has always picked me up and put me back on my feet and never judged me when I fell down again.
I am grateful that USC requires all their students to have health insurance.
I am grateful that West Hills Hospital allows visitors to the CCU 24/7.
I am grateful to everyone who took advantage of those visiting hours.
I am grateful to my new roommates, who have treated me family even though I moved in two days ago.
I'm all tapped out. That was my best try.
That picture, which I stole from LATimes.com, was taken about two miles from my house. I live off the Adams exit of the 110.
I Hate AA Meetings
Every meeting I go to has a bunch of 50-somethings who are 20 years sober but are still crying about how they ruined their lives by drinking.
I don't want to be like that.
I want to have moved on by the time I'm 50.
Or 30.
Or hell, by next week. Can that happen?
I don't want to be like that.
I want to have moved on by the time I'm 50.
Or 30.
Or hell, by next week. Can that happen?
Sunday, August 30, 2009
What I Remember
I do not remember how I ended up 35 miles away from school, on the curb outside the house where I used to live. I do not know who called 911. I do not remember buying - much less drinking - the bottle of tequila the police found next to me, or downing the bottles of pills the fire department pulled out of my purse.
I remember laughing, hysterically, that somehow two policemen and two paramedics had been dispatched to me at 3:30 in the morning, just because I drank too much. I remember asking names and station numbers because I was convinced that I was going to send them cookies to thank them for their trouble.
"It's our job, ma'am," they all said, which made me laugh harder, because I was twenty and drunk and found alone on the side of the road and they were calling me "ma'am."
The paramedics both knew my dad. I remember threatening them with HIPAA lawsuits if they told my dad what I had done. They rolled their eyes. The police officers told me they could not comprehend how I managed to get all the way out to the Valley from downtown without getting a DUI. I believe their actual phrase was that there had been a "widespread failure in LAPD and CHP" that night.
One of the police officers sat in the ambulance with us while the other one followed behind. I asked if I was going to have to be restrained, or if they would put me on a 5150. He said I seemed nice and compliant and he would let the psychiatrist decide whether I should go on a 5150 or not. I promised I would pretend to be sorry for trying to kill myself as long as I could get out of a 5150. He looked sad.
At the ER I waved a cheerful goodbye to the firefighters and tried to make small talk with the officers. They played along, I guess because they had nothing better to do than listen to my drunk ramblings, and hey, as long as I'm rambling, I'm alive.
I remember the nurse coming in and saying they were going to pump my stomach. I remember screaming that I'd rather die, and I remember trying to stand, and I don't remember anything else.
I woke up two days later in the CCU, with restraints on my wrists, but my armed guard gone. A nurse told me my heart had stopped. I'd had my stomach pumped, charcoal forced down my throat, been dead for a minute, and completely unresponsive for two days. I had bruises on my wrists from where I'd apparently tried to fight free of the restraints before my heart stopped but after I'd blacked out from the alcohol.
How, exactly, have I gotten to this point in life before I ever turned 21?
I remember laughing, hysterically, that somehow two policemen and two paramedics had been dispatched to me at 3:30 in the morning, just because I drank too much. I remember asking names and station numbers because I was convinced that I was going to send them cookies to thank them for their trouble.
"It's our job, ma'am," they all said, which made me laugh harder, because I was twenty and drunk and found alone on the side of the road and they were calling me "ma'am."
The paramedics both knew my dad. I remember threatening them with HIPAA lawsuits if they told my dad what I had done. They rolled their eyes. The police officers told me they could not comprehend how I managed to get all the way out to the Valley from downtown without getting a DUI. I believe their actual phrase was that there had been a "widespread failure in LAPD and CHP" that night.
One of the police officers sat in the ambulance with us while the other one followed behind. I asked if I was going to have to be restrained, or if they would put me on a 5150. He said I seemed nice and compliant and he would let the psychiatrist decide whether I should go on a 5150 or not. I promised I would pretend to be sorry for trying to kill myself as long as I could get out of a 5150. He looked sad.
At the ER I waved a cheerful goodbye to the firefighters and tried to make small talk with the officers. They played along, I guess because they had nothing better to do than listen to my drunk ramblings, and hey, as long as I'm rambling, I'm alive.
I remember the nurse coming in and saying they were going to pump my stomach. I remember screaming that I'd rather die, and I remember trying to stand, and I don't remember anything else.
I woke up two days later in the CCU, with restraints on my wrists, but my armed guard gone. A nurse told me my heart had stopped. I'd had my stomach pumped, charcoal forced down my throat, been dead for a minute, and completely unresponsive for two days. I had bruises on my wrists from where I'd apparently tried to fight free of the restraints before my heart stopped but after I'd blacked out from the alcohol.
How, exactly, have I gotten to this point in life before I ever turned 21?
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