How I Got Here: Epilogue

I had two New Year’s Eve invitations, one official, one not. My younger friend invited me to a sober party with some AA people, and my close friend invited me to his best friend’s house. I politely refused both. I didn’t want to spend New Year’s Eve with a bunch of people I didn’t know. I also did not want to attend a party at my replacement’s house when I was not invited by the host; I would have been miserable. I honestly preferred staying home alone, meditating and praying, being chill and at peace. I had asked my seminarian friend if he could find an appropriate prayer for me to say to welcome the new year, and he sent me one from Mother Ana of the Serbian Orthodox Marcha Monastery. It was beautiful! It expressed hope for peace and salvation for all people. “Lead us into your pastures of peace,” she said, “show us how to love each other as You love us….Save and protect us all, the poor, homeless, sick and despairing ones who have nowhere to turn. Let us then turn to you, our only safe haven and salvation.” I also found one from Metropolitan Christopher that was given around the time of the upheaval in Kosovo, I believe, and it also speaks of peace and love. In addition, I read a prayer the Dalai Lama gave in 1960 that asks for peace in the light of the Chinese violence against Tibet. Though it speaks directly about the political situation, it can easily apply to the daily lives of those who suffer: “Those unrelentingly cruel ones, objects of compassion, maddened by delusion’s evils, wantonly destroy themselves and others; may they achieve the eye of wisdom, knowing what must be done and undone, and abide in the glory of friendship and love.” That’s powerful stuff. The “unrelentingly cruel ones” can also mean those afflicted by negative emotions, unable to escape depression or anxiety or fear, and they become delusional and know not what they do; they hurt others because they themselves are in pain. Though they may not always cause pain on purpose, knowing that they have caused pain, they continue their behavior, and ultimately destroy their own lives. You cannot destroy another without destroying yourself.

 

 

 

 
I texted a few friends and relatives at midnight, watched TV Land for a few hours, and went to bed. It was a far different—and, obviously, better!—New Year’s Eve than the year before. I was content, I was comfortable, and I did exactly what I wanted. I spent New Year’s Day with my family, eating the required pork and sauerkraut. We watched TV, talked and laughed, and it felt nice. When I got home, I began this prose. I needed to get some things off my chest, to explain myself to people who didn’t know or understand. Of course there are specific people in mind when you write something like this and put it out there for all the world to see. No matter what I have written, though, this is my story, my attempt at putting my life into perspective. I revealed more than I thought I would about myself. And I am not uncomfortable with that. Writing all of this helped me realize a lot of things I thought I had already figured out. There’s something about looking at all of these words at once and understanding that, shit, I am human and have faults and feelings and problems. But it also helps me see how far I have come since last year. It is now January 28, and we just commemorated the one-year anniversary of my grandmother’s and great uncle’s deaths. I think back to how I was feeling and living when they died. I am again eating lots of leftovers from the after-church luncheon (dacha). I am again confused about my relationship with my close friend. I am again stressing about school and money. But I know that I have a better grip on reality, a better idea of who I am and what I want and what I deserve. My grandmother wanted me to be happy. A few months before she died, when we were visiting her in the hospital, she asked me how work was. I fucking hated my job. I told her it was okay, and she could tell I didn’t like it. “It’s a job, it pays the bills,” I explained. “You have to like what you do,” she told me. I said I hoped that, someday, I would. Here’s this woman, sick in the hospital for the umpteenth time, who hasn’t slept in her own bed for almost a year due to ongoing health complications, and all she wanted was for me to be happy. I was very unhappy at that time. But I didn’t know what to do about it. But she loved me so much. How could I disrespect her by continuing to live in such a way? I wanted things to get better for me, but I wasn’t trying, I was letting situations and people drag me down—really, I was letting ME drag me down. Looking back at the past year, and knowing that I have changed my life pretty radically, I have learned to not have regrets about the past. It is still a struggle for me, because I want to judge myself for all the stupid shit, but I think now, What can I do to change the past? Nothing. All I can do is acknowledge it, realize my mistakes, and try to do better. And that is all I expect of others. It is alright—it is normal!—to fuck shit up. And bad things happen to everybody, and we don’t always handle them the right way. We can learn from that. Life is not about what happens to you; it’s about how you handle what happens you. That’s what helps you to grow. I haven’t had any more problems than most people. I did make serious mistakes. I did fuck shit up. But I see now that it all truly is for a reason. My capacity to forgive has grown, my capacity for love and compassion has increased, and my appreciation for those whom I love has become stronger. All of that bad stuff led to something good.

 

 

 

 
My story is not unique, and maybe not even really that interesting. I don’t know. But I do feel better having written it out this way. I know it helped me to write it. Maybe it helped someone who read it. You find help in the strangest places sometimes. Things are going better for me but I am cautious. As a Serb, I am always skeptical. I want my family and friends to be happy. I want to be happy. I want to become closer to them all. I want them to know how I feel. I may get upset with them, but that’s only because they are not doing the right thing. I was upset with myself for many years, and I know now that it was because I was not doing the right thing. When someone does not live up to their potential, it really bothers me. I did not live up to mine. Now, I can at least say that I am trying. That is all any of us can do.

How I Got Here, Part VI

He started posting more comments on Facebook, trying to get to me. Sometimes I responded, usually not, at least at first. He was not going to call me—he had to do it the passive-aggressive way. I was not about to call him. He needed to take that step. I was the one who was wronged here. I had realized a lot of things about our relationship during that time apart, a lot about him, a lot about myself. Much of it was unpleasant. I realized that he was not the person I thought he was, that we had, in reality, not ever been truly best friends, not the way I needed my best friendship to be. He had no attachment to me whatsoever, he had no idea who I am, no idea who he is. He wanted to be popular, and I was popular. People knew him as my friend. Then he found a new group to be part of, new people to try to buy, new people to lie to. He no longer needed me. Could he have used me like that? I didn’t want to believe it, but it looked that way. How could things be so fucked up? Why does he lie so much? I heard a lot of stuff about him from people who know him, and that stuff confirmed what I had suspected and known in my heart, about all his cheating and lying and how he acts like he’s better than everyone. It was incredibly painful to hear this stuff, to know it, to believe it, and I felt great pity for him that this was the life he had created for himself. The spiritual stuff I had absorbed in the previous months made me more compassionate toward him, but did that mean I had to let him back into my life? I felt like I was supposed to show him the way, to help him better his life through my example. That’s why I gave him a copy of Thich Nhat Hanh’s “True Love” because it teaches about loving yourself first, and only then can you truly know how to love others. It really helped me understand my relationship with myself and I worked on creating more compassion and love for myself. I felt this book could help him. But I doubted he would read it. That kind of thing is too scary for him.

 

 

 

 
There was a verse from the Dhammapada that I really loved, and which I had texted to him over the summer when he was going through a hard time. I was very upset about things after my dinner party, and could not really explain to him how I felt. He started having an unexplained crisis at the same time, and I dropped everything I was going through to tend to his needs, even though he never needed anything. I tried calling but he wouldn’t answer. We texted a bit, and I even sent him flowers the next day. The verse I sent him was: “If you can find a friend to go with you who is steady, careful, and mature, together you can overcome all hardships with mindfulness and joy.” He said he liked the quote. I wanted to get it tattooed on me at some point, but Kali was not finished yet. Around November I decided it was time. Kali was healed, and I needed the physical ecstasy that only a tattoo on my ribcage can provide! It was to be written in the Tibetan script, and I added a red lotus flower. I was never into girly flower tattoos, but the lotus is different. I researched lotuses and what each colour symbolizes; I chose red because it pertained to all things of the heart, like love and compassion. It has eight petals to symbolize the eight spokes of the Kalachakra (wheel of time); since the lotus flower represents rebirth, and it arises from the mud through the water to blossom in the sunlight, coming from something ugly and messy, reaching through the water to see the sun and become something beautiful, the petals are partially open to show that I am in the process of rebirth. The quote itself really characterizes how I view friendship, that you are supposed to help one another and provide guidance and counsel and love, and everything will be alright. I really felt it was perfect for what I was going through, and I knew that I was that kind of friend. I was beginning to realize that it was not my fault that I was not always appreciated by certain people; I was the best friend I could be, and if someone didn’t get that, they were losing out. I’m not being conceited, but I throughout my life I feel like I have been a better friend to many people than they have to me. I love deeply and passionately and unconditionally, and that may scare some folks, but I wouldn’t change that about myself. My ability to love others as devotedly as I do is a blessing from God, it is a gift, and I will not squander it. I feel so lucky to have this ability, and I pray every day for the people I already know to appreciate it, and I wish for more people to share my love with. I put the quote on my side torso because your friends should always be by your side. It looks amazing! I wasn’t sure about the size at first, but it really makes an impression the way it reaches across my ribcage just over to the chest. It is one of the most meaningful tattoos I wear.

 

 

 

 
Of course I still loved him. I wanted things to work out, but I didn’t see how they could. We wanted different things out of life, we had different values, different ideas of friendship and loyalty and truth. Why should I not have the kind of friend I want and need and deserve? If he could never be that friend, what more could I do? Hadn’t I done enough? Hadn’t I been patient enough while he worked through his issues? Was it fair for me to be a martyr for his salvation?  Very dramatic, I know, but that’s what I was thinking. All the Christian and Buddhist things I had read told me I was supposed to help people who are lost, that I should endure suffering on their behalf, that I was supposed to do absolutely whatever it took to improve their lives and help them see the light. I had already gone through so much and it had made absolutely no difference in his life, so why should I keep trying? But something was telling me to give him a chance, though from a distance. We would have to sit down and really talk if we would ever move past it. But I was not optimistic. Weeks went by of him writing comments on my page, and I was amused. But I was also really consumed with school. The semester was almost over and I had some major research to do, and could not afford to be distracted by that situation. School had been going pretty well, and I was looking forward to getting through the next semester so I could start my thesis. I had a lot on my plate and just wanted the year to be over with already!

 

 

 

 
The day after the end of the semester (I got a 3.85 GPA) one of my best friends came into town for the holidays. I was ready to hang out and party! I hadn’t had a drink since the small sip of champagne I took at my dinner party in August, and had no desire for alcohol. I hadn’t cut since August either, interesting, since that was the last time I saw my close friend. I knew there was a connection between no self-injury and no him. I never blamed him for my self-injury, because I had been doing that since I was a kid, long before we ever met. I never learned to deal with my anger or depression properly, so I hurt myself to punish myself for those feelings, or to just express disappointment in myself or others. It is always a choice to react in that way, just like he chooses to react to things by lying or cheating or being a snob. But every time I cut in the previous year had something to do with him. Circumstances triggered me to take that action against myself, because I was angry at him and didn’t express it as I should have. I was trying to protect his feelings because I knew how uncomfortable he always was, so I kept things to myself a lot. That makes people self-injure. I mean, I am not blaming it on him, but the fact that I stopped altogether after he stopped talking to me is significant. Other factors contributed to that, of course, other attitude adjustments and spiritual explorations, but not having that trigger in my life really made a difference in countless ways. Anyway, we decided to go to the bar close to my place but I had a feeling my close friend would be there. I was not ready to see him. But I didn’t want to avoid the bar because of him, since I knew a lot of people I had not seen in ages would be there as well. So we went, saw him as soon as we walked in, and stayed on the other side of the room talking to friends. It was a lot of fun! The place was packed, and it was great to be out.

 

 

 

 
After an hour or so we saw him and his boyfriend walking towards us; my friends were shielding me, but I said it wasn’t necessary. I wouldn’t be rude if he wanted to chat a bit. He walked over and said hello to my friends first, then to me. He looked bad, very sad, very thin, very tired. Something was going on with him, and I knew it had nothing to do with me. I felt sympathy for him, really, no anger, but I was not trying go out of my way to talk to him either. I was cordial, I answered his questions, but did not ask a thing. It was weird. When they left I simply said goodbye, but he asked for a hug, which he never does. His boyfriend hugged me also. (Just a sidebar: this was only the third time I had met this guy in the year that they had been dating.) He tried making plans with me for the following week but I said I would have to let him know. My out-of-town friend and I left shortly afterward and went to another bar, and I got a text from my close friend saying how great it was to see me. I did not respond.

 

 

 

 
The next night a few of us went to see a private screening of “Milk”, and ended up going out afterward. The movie was wonderful, and the time spent with old friends invaluable. Throughout the semester I was talking with these people a lot, often about the situation with my close friend, often about life in general and how we’ve all changed. I always appreciated these guys, but it really started to dawn on me how much they loved me. I am so blessed to have so much love in my life. I may get my heart broken, but I still love. Without love, what life is there? Some of the people I was with that night after the movie were friends from my drinkin’ and hoin’ days, and we were reminiscing about the good old days, but I was talking about the way I conduct myself these days and how we all seem to have reformed a bit. It was enlightening and fun and made me happy to talk to my friends.

 

 

 

 
The next day I was on Facebook, as I am pretty much 24-7, and my close friend IMed me. I wrote back. He had emailed on there a week before, trying to invite himself to a charity event I was having at my place, and we wrote back and forth a bit. But this was different. We had seen each other a few nights earlier for the first time in four months, and now he was reaching out in a bit more of a direct way. We chatted about random stuff and then about the elephant in the room, but in a very vague way. He said something about how the past three months had been very “trying” for him. He asked what I thought about his longer hair, and I said I didn’t like it, that it made him look even thinner, and that he had lost far too much weight. I was not one to talk, because I had lost 30 pounds since March, most of it since the summer, due to anxiety and depression. I was not trying to lose weight—I had simply lost my appetite. (A seminarian friend told me I was martyring myself for my close friend, albeit subconsciously.) He commented on my thinness at the bar, saying how good I looked, but he has an eating disorder so I did not take that as a compliment! Anyway, I did not question him about what he had been going through, I simply said that it is all for a reason. It was unusual that he would even acknowledge that things had been rough. He also said that he doesn’t go out much anymore, since his boyfriend doesn’t like to go out, and he made comments about how he was becoming more like me. I did not want to hear that. I wanted him to do what was right for himself; I was glad that he was not going out as much (if that was indeed the truth), I was glad to be a good example of how one can change one’s life, but I never want to hear anyone say “I’m more like you now”. I want him to be himself, I want him to love himself, I want him to appreciate himself. I love him very much, very passionately, as I love my family, and I felt like he was destroying himself. It is painful to watch someone do that and not be able to help them. But I realized, finally, that I can only help myself directly. All the changes I had gone through that year I created myself. There are people who inspire you, people who encourage you, people who love you, but until you make that decision to change, none of that fucking matters. I never loved myself very much. I was finally starting to. I finally believed that I deserved good things in life, that I deserved the love I had, and that I did not deserve to be lied to and tossed aside.

 

 

 

 
One of the significant people I had been confiding in and hanging out with was one of my younger friends, whom I had known since he was 19 and was dating my close friend. He had been going through a lot of rough stuff in the previous year as he struggled with various addictions and suicide. I took great comfort in having him by my side again, in knowing that we were moving forward together toward our new lives, and it was just a blessing that he was still alive! He was a great source of support for me and I hope I was for him as well. I attended an AA meeting with him one night to show support for his sobriety, and even though I didn’t have to do AA or rehab to stop drinking, it was a valuable experience. We talked about it afterward, and I told him about how obsessed I am with shows like “Intervention” and “Celebrity Rehab”, and how I realized that there were many different levels of addiction, and that, though his issue was at a more serious level than mine had been, that I don’t feel like I am any different from him when it came to figuring out that I needed to live a healthier life. I don’t know, I mean, my drinking had become enough of a problem for me to know that I needed to stop. There had been many blackouts and regrettable behaviours over the years, injuries that occurred while drinking, arguments, all that stuff. I was no better than anyone who needed rehab. I still had to avoid certain situations, though it was getting easier. I still had a fully-stocked bar at home, but no desire to drink. But I never wanted to say I would never drink again. I hoped I would never drink again, though, because I knew if that happened, it would be the end of me.

 

 

 

 
I was also taking comfort in my friendship with the straight guy. We had been talking regularly for a while, and it was wonderful! I always felt happy after having spoken to him. I was writing a blog for his website, so we talked a lot of business, but afterward we would talk about personal stuff, or politics, movies, whatever. He knew all the drama I had been going through, and it was a relief to be able to share my feelings with him and get another perspective. He was always honest and sincere and it made me feel good. Not that I wasn’t wary, because he has always known how to say just the right thing and then let me down. But there were no expectations now, you know? He was just my friend. We rarely mentioned our, well, fling, I guess, but I’m not sure that’s even the right word. We had amazing sex a few times—seriously, the best I ever had!—and great conversations, but at this point hadn’t seen each other in almost four years. We were friends with a past, I guess. It didn’t matter, because we were each very busy with other things and lived a few hours away, and we were trying to get our lives together. I wasn’t sure anything would ever happen between us, though in past years I wanted that more than anything. But honestly, I hardly knew him. We had really only spent a few hours together (except for work), and we were drunk (and he was high), so I don’t know what I based any of my feelings on. I kept going back to those amazing conversations. He was hilarious, super smart, interesting, open-minded, and he actually paid attention to what I said. Listening to him talk about his life and what he’s learned, and what he thinks about what I’ve been up to, was really inspiring and refreshing. He really did care about me. He was a really good friend.

 

 

 

 
My out-of-town friend and I were out together pretty much every night that week, and it was just so much fun. Nobody pressured me to drink, nobody even questioned why I wasn’t drinking. How wonderful that was! We had dinner with friends one night, went to see a friend’s drag show another, and we took lots of paparazzi pictures all week. It was more fun than I had had in ages. And again, nobody asked me about my close friend. The next night was my out-of-town friend’s last night in Cleveland, so we planned to go out to my favourite bar. My close friend and his boyfriend were going to meet us there after a work party. I debated about buying him a Christmas present, because we were not really friends again, but I still loved him and wanted to get him something and I had found the perfect thing. I also made him a card. But up until the second I gave it to him, I wasn’t sure I would. He told me he left my gift at home, but I knew he hadn’t gotten me anything. I didn’t expect anything, so it would have been fine. I know he was surprised that I got him something, so he felt obligated to say he had a present for me too, but I honestly did not need a gift from him. It was fine.

 

 

 

 
He and his boyfriend stayed only about an hour, and he pretty much ignored his guy. He quizzed me about all kinds of stuff, and seemed overly-excited to be around me. It was weird. He kept referring to things I had posted on Facebook, and his boyfriend tried getting into the conversation by congratulating me on my GPA. It was very awkward and I did not know what to make of it. He called me on his way there and asked if I wanted to go to the opera in the spring, and was trying to make all these long-range plans. I felt it was too soon to plan stuff together, but I was glad he was thinking about it. But I was still unsure as to what we were to each other. He was not my best friend, that I knew. We had not been for at least a year; he had replaced me a long time before.

 

 

 

 
After those two left, my out-of-town friend finally got there, and the night was fabulous and paparazzi-packed! It had been a wonderful week, and I was glad I went out a lot and enjoyed myself with my friends. I saw a lot of people I had not seen for a long time, and it was great that they remembered me. I thought about how addictive that is, though, living like that as I did for so many years. It is a lot of fun to go out and everyone knows you, to never have to pay for anything, to be told how fabulous you are. But it was so empty. I became that crowd, like, I was defined by the role I played there. I was not happy, and that was my fault, not theirs. They had certain expectations that I willingly lived up to. But the time I spent away from all of that showed me who I really am and what I am truly capable of. I did not need to be out every night, sloppy drunk, showing my tits to the world so I can be popular. What the fuck is that? My priorities had changed, my perspective had changed—I was an observer now, and happy to be so. I had other things to do with my time, as fun as the partying could be. But I realized that, at the end of the day, if I am sitting with myself at home and I am not happy with who I am, none of that matters. If all I can do is drink and cry and cut, that is not a life. I chose that lifestyle for a good portion of my life, and I was fucking miserable. FUCKING MISERABLE!!! Now I was on the right track at last, looking out for myself and my future, my goals. I want to utilize my talents, my passion, my energy. I no longer wish to be complacent in the heartache and sorrow and regret that my life had become. I had to do what I needed to do, and I could no longer blame other people or situations for my problems. Buddha said, “The harm you do is your own doing; you create your emotional problems yourself. You yourself can turn from wrongdoing; only you can purify you. Pure or impure, it is yours to choose, for no one can purify another.” I was really living in that idea, I truly understood why I was where I was in my life. I had to stop judging myself for the mistakes of the past and simply acknowledge them and move forward. The only thing that matters is today. Live your best life, be your best self today (I sound like Oprah, I know!). Wow, that’s pretty simple, but so challenging. Nothing will get better until you make it better.

 

 

 

 
I felt pretty good about what I was doing with myself. I never want to feel like everything is perfect, because nothing will ever be perfect. I am still working on not expecting perfection of myself—that’s difficult. I can only do so much, and I can really only do it for myself. No matter what, I love my friends, even if we are not on speaking terms at the time, and I pray for them every night and think about what I can do to help them. I was not sure about the status of my relationship with my close friend. I knew that I wanted it to work out, but I didn’t see how it could unless he became a completely different person, and I could not expect that. There are things you just have to accept about the people in your life, but lying and cheating are not things anyone should put up with. Other things are really not very important when you love someone. But I was conflicted about how to move forward. He really seemed to want to jump back into things, but I kept my distance for my own sake. We needed to talk about everything, and it would not get resolved in one conversation, of course. I really wanted him to be happy. I knew he wasn’t. I knew that was not my fault. I did everything I could, but nothing improved. How could this be fixed? What should we do? Is love enough? These questions were on my mind as 2008 drew to a close. I was closer to becoming the woman I knew I was, so nothing could get in my way. But I missed him terribly. As much as I got used to him not being around, I did miss him. But I discovered that the person I missed never really existed. I looked past a lot of stuff because I loved him and wanted to keep the friendship going. I let a lot of shit slide. That was a mistake. I did not want to continue to live in the past and hold all that against him. But how could I move past it unless we talked about it? He didn’t seem different after all those months apart, but he insisted he was. I was skeptical. I wanted to have him in my life forever. I never thought our relationship would go in this direction. What next?

How I Got Here, Part V

A few years ago I was fooling around with this stupid Italian guy—he was young and dumb and, well, you know the rest. The whole situation was a waste of my time, and I found out after more than a year that he had a girlfriend. But a month before I found that out, I just knew it was time to just tell him goodbye and be done with it. He was not worthy, like, AT ALL, just an alcoholic and a drug addict and a liar. But something drew me to him—I have that motherly instinct that makes me want to take care of broken people, to fix them, to love them enough to love themselves. It has never worked. But I kept trying.

 

 

 

 

 

On my left arm is a tattoo of the Hindu god Ganesh, the remover of obstacles. A year and a half earlier this guy inspired me to choose Ganesh; I had many obstacles in my life at that time, and he was one of them. It was an epiphany, like many of my tattoos, to choose Ganesh, and I got the outline done a few months after I had the idea. Obstacles started dropping like flies! It was great. But he was still there, hating my tattoo, thinking women shouldn’t have such things (old fashioned Italian that way). It took me over a year to finish it because I was going through a bankruptcy, but right after Christmas I decided I needed to finish it. The night after it was completed I called the restaurant he worked in to reserve a table in his section; fortuitously, he was working, and I made my plans to tell him goodbye. Ganesh was going to work his magic and rid my life of this worthless turd at last! It was all so fucked up, and he didn’t understand why I was saying goodbye to him; he’s a dumbass. Anyway, a month later was when I found out that I was the other woman and I knew that it was finally finished for good.

 

 

 

 

The Hindu goddess Kali is one fierce bitch! She killed Shiva, destroyed the earth because men were constantly at war and she wanted to show them how valuable the planet was that they were destroying—she was also a huntress and a protector of children. I had her name tattooed on the back of my neck a long time ago, and for years searched for the perfect picture of her to get tattooed. I found one and started the process almost two years ago. Money issues again delayed the completion of this piece, but after paying my bills off at the end of August I knew I was just weeks away from getting it finished.

 

 

 

 

 

I went once a week for about a month to get it done. The day it was finally complete, I was so relieved! And it was gorgeous! My entire back is covered with Kali, as well as with two Serbian tattoos, another Hindu one, a kangi and a chakra. It was all very exciting and I couldn’t wait to show it off. There is a lot of detail involved, and I really can’t see it because it’s on my back, so I had a friend check it out and we found a few things that were left out, and I went back to get it touched up. I had also decided to get the Tibetan script for “karma” on my left wrist. I was toying with the idea of getting another black heart added to my “Gamble everything for love” tattoo on the inside of my wrist; I had gotten that one right after I found out about the Italian guy’s girlfriend. The quote is from the Sufist poet Rumi, and I got five black hearts to symbolize the men who have broken my heart. You don’t have to be in love with someone to get your heart broken by them. I thought I should add a sixth heart for this close friend of mine, because he had hurt me so much, and I was truly heartbroken. We did the karma one first, then fixed up Kali, then I asked him to throw on another black heart. I knew it was over once I did that. No matter how things turned out, my heart was truly broken.

 

 

 

 

We were having serious issues that he had yet to acknowledge; he fears conflict of any kind, he fears emotions, he fears reality. After I left him that voicemail that basically told him it was over, he emailed and pretended he didn’t have his phone, blah blah blah, all the usual bullshit. We talked the next day and I told him everything I felt, that I had no idea what made me his best friend, that he had hurt me more than anyone ever had, that nobody else had ever lied to me as much as he had, everything. He finally acknowledged that he had a hard time dealing with me not drinking and going out anymore and said that we had to find something else in common. It pissed me off that it took him so long to realize that, when I had been saying it for six months. Better late than never, I guess. He said we could get together that weekend, that he would stop by, and he asked if he should bring his boyfriend–??? Seriously? I said no, that the two of us needed to spend some time together. Duh!

 

 

 

 

The next few days were uncomfortable; I was bitchy sometimes, nice sometimes, confused and anxious the whole time. I knew he would cancel on me like he always did. He called Friday night from a concert, emailed pictures the next day, and then I texted to say I was looking forward to seeing him. I heard nothing. I did it again on Sunday. He wrote back and told me he just couldn’t do it, he felt weird, there was something wrong with him, he had to go to the doctor, he loves me, it’s not me it’s him. I was very upset though not at all surprised. That was the last I heard from him for about six weeks. I sent letters and emails and stuff, dropped Buddhist books and Buddhist and Hindu statues off at his place, but got no response. It was very rough. School was stressing me out as it was, but so was this relationship. I was talking to some friends about what was going on, and they all thought I needed to get rid of this guy, at least for the time being, for my own sanity. I had a lot going for me, they insisted, and I was being dragged down, I was so unhappy. Getting through every day was excrutiating. I knew it was for the best, for me, that is, but I was constantly worried about him. He was seriously fucked up! I hoped he was getting help, but I doubted it. He would never really understand me, he would never acknowledge what a mess things had become. What would happen if he called? Would I answer? I had no idea.

 

 

 

 

 

As the weeks went on and I heard absolutely nothing, though his increasing dependence on Facebook allowed me to know a bit of what he was up to. He seemed very unhappy. The latest pictures of him out and about showed misery in his eyes. There was something very wrong. As for myself, I started getting used to being without him. It was actually quite a relief. I didn’t go out because I was far too busy with school, but once in a while I went somewhere with friends and had a blast. The great thing was that nobody ever asked where he was. I wasn’t sure if he had told anyone what was going on, and I knew that if he had said anything it would not be the truth; he says whatever he needs to make himself look good. I was obviously the crazy one. Anyway, I only discussed the situation with my closest friends, most of whom lived in other states, all of whom knew him, none of whom cared for him. I was not trying to make him look bad; he does that enough on his own.

 

 

 

 

 

Then one Monday afternoon I got an email from him. My immediate reaction was anger. Why is he bothering me now? I thought. I have been doing so well, why is he disrupting my life like this? Those were my feelings. I was shaking as I read the email, which was short and explained that he felt that our time apart helped, that I had made so much progress and he felt he had been holding me back. He said he wanted me to know he was thinking about this stuff, but that he didn’t know what the next step was. It was a start, he wrote. I was extremely upset, and I analyzed every word and every bit of punctuation. But I did not write back. I wanted to respond, word for word, to what he had said, but I stopped myself. I was very emotional, and always got crazy in these situations. I was impressed with my restraint. I wondered for days what to do, I talked to friends about it. I knew I would eventually write back but I wasn’t sure how long or what I would say. He started writing little things on my Facebook page every day. It bothered me.

 

 

 

 

 

I waited almost a week to write back, and I was very distant and matter-of-fact when I did, nothing like what he thought I would say. I was still angry at the intrusion. Why now? I wondered. He had just returned from a trip with his boyfriend, and the next day he writes me this email? What does he want? He had to have an ulterior motive.

How I Got Here, Part IV

Jack Kornfield saved my life. He is a Buddhist psychologist and has written some great books, and I listened to his meditation CDs every night. I was particularly interested in the forgiveness meditation. I learned that forgiveness is mainly for the person doing the forgiving; if you are just angry at someone, filled with hatred or bad feelings in general, who does that really hurt? Not the person you are mad at. Not forgiving someone really takes a toll on yourself, it makes you bitter and sad and anxious. Why live like that? You will always be suspicious and never trusting of others, and that is not a good way to go through life. Not forgiving really only punishes you. I had been thinking about that since Lent, the idea of forgiving, because the priest who spoke during the Anointing of the Sick mass during Holy Week delved into the concept of forgiveness and how important it is in our lives. The Christian and Buddhist philosophies about forgiveness really are the same in so many ways, and it really made me think about my close friend and all the shitty things he had done to me over the previous year, but it also made me think of how much of a mess he must really be if that’s the way he behaves. Lying and cheating and being deceitful are the devil’s works, and people who live like that are really sad, scared individuals who were not loved properly as children. The devil is happy when people fall like that, he is glad to see humans acting on his behalf. Buddhists believe that people are born good—goodness is the natural state of being. Something happens that makes them behave badly. To Christians, this can be demonic possession, which a friend of mine suggested was what happened with this close friend of mine. I know it sounds crazy, but it really makes sense. I have gone back and forth over the years wondering whether people are essentially good or essentially evil, and it just makes sense that we are essentially good. A baby cannot be evil! But circumstances create a certain mindset in people that cause them to behave in unseemly ways. Is that the devil?

 

 

 

 

The most important part of the forgiveness meditation is learning to forgive yourself. That is what I had the most trouble with when I began. First you ask forgiveness of those whom you have hurt, either in thought, word, or deed, knowingly or unknowingly. People do these things out of fear and pain, not because they are pure evil. Then you forgive yourself for the hurtful things you have done to yourself. Lastly, you offer forgiveness, to the extent that you are able, to those who have hurt you. It seems easier to forgive others than to forgive me. I cried every time I got to the self-forgiveness. All the things I have done to myself over the years: the drinking, the cutting, the scandalous behavior, the time I had wasted, my bankruptcy. It was a lot to think about all at once, and it seemed impossible for me to be able to move past it. I had been a huge disappointment, I thought, I was a waste of space. I am an intelligent person, but I did so much stupid shit—how can I ever forgive myself? It was quite a challenge to be able to tell myself that it was all okay, that everything happened for a reason, that I was now learning the right ways to behave. But I am 35 years old and I feel like my life is really just beginning. It was embarrassing. But I had to learn patience, with myself and with others, in order to truly practice forgiveness. I have never had much patience, especially with myself, but it was something I had to have in order to make the changes I needed to make in my life.

 

 

 

 

One of the books I read over the summer said that there is a reason it’s called “meditation practice”. It can take 25 years to really feel like you finally have the hang of it! I am a perfectionist, and I pride myself on being a quick learner and the best at everything, so learning to meditate was really a struggle. First of all, I am hyper. It is difficult for me to just sit calmly in one spot for any length of time and not move or speak. Secondly, I cannot shut off my mind. Meditation helps you to get outside of those thoughts that stress you out, hold you back, and just plain do not benefit your life. Why can’t I stop thinking about what I have to do tomorrow? Why is last week’s research paper still on my mind? It’s too hard to not think about my money problems! Alright, alright, true, but just taking a few minutes out to meditate is not going to make anything worse, and it just might make these issues easier to deal with. Learning to just sit with these feelings is important, and learning that most of what we worry about is really not that important is important. Getting upset is not going to improve the situation, so why do it? Everything we do in life must be for the betterment of our lives and the lives of all sentient beings.

 

 

 

 

Having time to myself is precious. I love being alone, I love just being able to sit and read and write and relax (well, my version of relaxation). Some people don’t understand how I can be so content with me time. My close friend needs to be around people all the time. Until the middle of the summer when his ex-boyfriend finally moved out, he had never lived alone. It was challenging for him. I couldn’t imagine always needing to be around people. I didn’t move out on my own until I was 33, but I always loved spending time by myself. I love my family and my friends, and have always valued the time we spent together, but when you are constantly surrounded by others you can really lose sight of who you are. That is what I think was happening to me throughout all the years of partying: I kind of created a certain image of myself, and it proved to be pretty popular. I wasn’t being phony, but that me overtook the other part of me that was serious and passionate and old-fashioned. What people saw was a scandalous straight girl who showed her boobs all the time and was sloppy drunk—as Margaret Cho said, “The most dressed up is always the most messed up.” That was me! I had cute clothes, stripper shoes, fabulous purses, I was always getting lucky in gay bars, I never paid for my own drinks. But I would drink myself stupid and let random guys have their way with me (though not to the extent that my reputation would have one believe—but I certainly never corrected the rumours!). What kind of life is that? I was having fun, I thought, I was building a fan base! But I was very depressed all the time, and my life was really going nowhere.

 

 

 

 

I knew there was a difference between my bar friends and my real friends. I had accumulated quite a large group of people I hung out with in the bars, and it was always great fun to be out and catch up with them and do shots and play battle of the jukebox at the bar on Sundays. There were people from the bar whose names I didn’t even know, but they knew mine and we would hang out together. Most of these people I never saw outside the bar. Only a few were really close friends of mine, only a few were people I knew I could really count on in an emergency. In those first six months of not drinking or going out, I really saw who my real friends were. It was, in some ways, surprising. 99% of the people I hung out with every week at the club never called, texted, or emailed me. I would hear through my close friend that someone asked about me, somebody else said hello, another wants me to come out sometime soon. It’s nice to hear stuff like that, but they all knew how to get in touch with me if they really wanted to. I wasn’t pissed off about it, actually. It just really helped to put things in perspective for me. So many of these “relationships” were based on alcohol. And it seemed that my friendship with this closest friend of mine was also. When I told him that he denied it, but I pointed out that the vast majority of the time we had spent together had been spent in the bars, drinking and spending his money. I didn’t want to live that life anymore. He didn’t get it.

 

 

 

 

When school started at the end of August things were rough between us. I had gotten my student loans and paid my rent through the end of the lease, I paid off all my credit cards, and bought some groceries. But there was still something fucked up between my friend and me. I had begun to distance myself from the relationship. It was the only thing I could do. I didn’t call him at all, I didn’t return messages or texts most of the time. I just needed time away. I knew this was not the friendship I had thought it was, and that he was definitely not the person I thought he was. I didn’t think he was a bad person, just a hot mess. Not that I was passing judgment, because I obviously still had issues myself. But I knew that I was working on mine, and I was starting to see improvements in my life. I saw no improvements in his. The lies had continued, the deceit, and we only hung out a few times over the summer. I had a dinner party a few weeks before school began that I almost cancelled. The whole thing made me feel very uncomfortable. It was only the second time I had met his new boyfriend—well, they had been dating for about seven months at this point, so he wasn’t really new anymore, but he was to me. But the others at the party had spent lots of time with them, and they were telling all these inside jokes and stories. I felt completely left out. This was how the entire year felt for me. My friend had pushed me out of his life.

 

 

 

 

In the spring I packed up everything he ever gave me and wanted to give it all back. I never did. I packed everything up again in August and left him a voice mail that basically told him I knew it was over, that he had no room for me in his life anymore and that I would step aside if it was what made him happy. He had been lying to me all weekend about having left his phone at work, and I finally decided to just end it. This was the sign I needed. He had all kinds of time to start dating someone new before his other boyfriend moved out of the house, he was on all these sports teams, was still going out a lot, but he was always too busy for me. I was prepared to step aside to give him his space. Plus I really needed to be on my own. My sanity was demanding it. I did not want to drink. I wanted to stop the self-injury. I wanted to focus on school and my future and on being the woman I am meant to be. How could I do that with this noose around my neck?

How I Got Here, Part III

The next day was Monday, my close friend’s birthday. I had a sick feeling and really needed to talk to him about what had been going on, what I was thinking, but as usual, I had no idea how to bring it up. He’s excrutiatingly uncomfortable with anything serious, anything real or emotional, so I was always looking out for his feelings and avoided such topics. But that was eating away at me. When I was upset with him, I didn’t usually say it. I would say I was depressed or tired, shit like that. It’s always been difficult for me to express my anger toward people I love; I’m afraid that if I do, they will get mad and stop being my friend. So I keep it inside, I write about it, I have my self-injury to get me through (if you want to call it that). But I had been keeping way too much to myself. I had a few close friends in whom I confided about my problems, friends who lived in other states who I saw a few times a year, and we had become closer throughout 2008. I was really trying to express myself the right way, though my closest friend could not handle it. He gets very uncomfortable so I don’t say what I need to say and I end up hurting myself instead.

 

 

 

 

He called me a few times, and at one point he mentioned having gone to the event he told me he couldn’t volunteer for. I was confused about it since he said he got off work well after the event was rained out, but then he told me that he stopped by after work. The event was closed at least two hours before then. He tried telling me he mistakenly told me the wrong time he left work, but it still didn’t coincide with the event still being open. It wasn’t making sense. He was weaving quite a tangled web for himself.

 

 

 

 

The next day we were going to go to the theatre with his mother and her friend. I had made him some birthday gifts because I was far too poor to buy anything, but was having second thoughts about giving them to him. I spent a lot of time and really put a lot of effort into what I created for him, but I knew he was fucking lying to me. He had been lying about A LOT of stuff for at least a year, and I was waiting to find out what was really going on. Before work I was checking a friend’s MySpace page for pictures from the previous weekend, and there were some photos from the event. As I quickly skimmed through to find some from the bar the night before, I happened to see one of my close friend, wearing a volunteer shirt, standing with his true best friend, in the middle of a sunny afternoon. I knew he was lying, but I didn’t think he would be so bold about it as to pose for a picture for one of my good friends! I was outraged and sad and started shaking. I emailed the picture to him with a note that just said “What the fuck is this?” My friend who took the picture told me it was taken in the middle of the afternoon, which was obvious. My close friend told me that was not true, that he’s sorry I had to spy on him, blah blah blah. I walked to work calling him and leaving weepy voicemails. More texts and emails were exchanged throughout the morning, and he finally called—but we said nothing about the photo. I was so fucking miserable all day, and he said we would talk about it another time. But that didn’t happen for another week.

 

 

 

 

In the spring, I had a series of epiphanies about my life and my friendships and really wanted to talk with him about it. I had to wait three months because he was “tired”, “busy”, “not feeling well”, “working”, etc. etc. etc. But I kept hearing about him going out to the bars, so I knew that was bullshit. He was doing everything possible to push me out of his life without actually telling me to go fuck myself. But I kept trying to make things work, I kept trying to be patient and understanding that he had a lot to do. But I put up with too much.

 

 

 

 

When we finally sat down to talk after I found out he had lied about volunteering, it was in a restaurant, not my apartment. I felt pretty good after our conversation, and it seemed like he was really sincere. I told him to never lie to me again, no matter what—I had said this to him before, but that is something that should not have to be said. When you love someone, you don’t lie to them. Plain and simple. My self-destructive tendencies and depression and stress were his excuses for lying. That is a load of horse shit.

 

 

 

 

Things were alright for a few days, but my gut was telling me something was still not right. It was a rough summer in a lot of ways, partly because of this issue with my friend, but also because I was running out of money. I had been living on my student loans since January, and only worked one or two days a week at the store. I had been living on a tight budget pretty much since I moved out on my own, but now I was again unable to buy basics like milk, bread, and eggs. I had plenty of Mom’s leftovers in the fridge, so I certainly wasn’t without food, but I didn’t buy fresh fruit or vegetables, I certainly didn’t buy cookies or chips or anything—even my beloved cheese and crackers had to take a hiatus! I spent the entire summer reading, 25 books between May and the end of August. I started off with things like “Prozac Nation” and “The Scarred Soul”, because I was still wallowing in my depression and anxiety. That’s where my head was at; it’s much easier to stay miserable than to try to fix things. By July I had discovered many things about the way I handle relationships, anger, fear, and really didn’t want to waste my life anymore. I was in graduate school, and had done so well in my first semester that I was offered a tuition waiver for the duration of my matriculation. I had to work a few hours in the history department each week and I would have less to pay back in student loans! I was proud of myself, but was stressing about time constraints with the courses I would be taking in the fall. I never feel like I’m doing enough with the time I have, and by mid-July I was freaking out, counting down the days until fall semester. I wanted to take the four months of summer vacation to really get my head together so that I could be more focused on school in the fall. Despite the drama of the spring, I had done well enough to get my tuition paid for, but just think what I could have done had I had a clear mind! It was certainly helpful that I had not been drinking that whole time. (I did try to get drunk in early June, though, after attending a very nice Buddhist event where we chanted, meditated, and did yoga. I was going to binge eat, get drunk, and self-injure, but after forcing myself to drink a little more than a glass of red wine, I just didn’t want any more. The taste no longer pleased me. I was glad.)

 

 

 

 

For years I had half-assed tried to learn meditation, but was never really sure what I was doing. How do I know when I’m doing it right? Am I supposed to go into a trance? Am I supposed to speak in tongues? What the fuck? I have always been interested in other religions and learning about ways to find myself (I am a hippy at heart), but the time finally seemed right to do some serious work on my spiritual self. I switched from reading books about cutting and eating disorders to reading the Dalai Lama, Thich Nhat Hanh, Gandhi, and lots of stuff about meditation and yoga. I already knew all about my self-destructive self, now I wanted to learn how I got that way and how I could change it. I had to take charge of my life and stop making excuses. And I was not going to let anyone stop me. It helped that my close friend stopped talking to me for a week (though he texted a few times) to try to get himself together. During that week I got some meditation CDs and books from the library. The very first second that I meditated, I felt all the tension leave my face—that’s the sign I need to know that something is working. I meditated every night, and I really started to feel better. I was reading a new book almost every other day. I am a total nerd, and once I get interested in something I become obsessed and read every single thing I can find. I was really trying to get my shit straight, for the first time in my life. I was hoping it wasn’t just another fad.

How I Got Here, Part II

It was certainly a struggle at first, especially when I was stressed out or depressed, but I avoided alcohol like the plague. Like I said, not going out was a huge help, though people didn’t understand. I think a big part of their lack of support was not wanting to acknowledge that I had a problem. They would have to think about their role in it (buying me drinks all the time—in one case, buying me bottles of wine when I was too poor to afford wine or milk or eggs!), and they would have to think about their own drinking and whether it was a problem which, for some, it was. So it was obviously easier to say that I was just overreacting, that I shouldn’t stop drinking altogether, maybe just cut down a bit instead. Isn’t that ridiculous? How dare someone try to tell me that I don’t know when I have a problem. It was inconvenient for people that I was not going out like I used to, it was an affront to the lifestyle they wanted to continue to lead. I was anti-social, yes, partly out of depression and just plain being too busy with school, but a major part of it was just preferring to stay away from the environment in which I was a drunken mess for all those years, and I admit that I wanted to stay away from people who encouraged me to drink and be scandalous and all that, people close to me who triggered my self-destructive tendencies. Why would someone who loves me want me to be in an unhealthy environment like that? It is ultimately my decision to drink or not, and to do the other things I was trying to avoid, but being around people and places where all I did was act like a hot drunken mess certainly did not inspire me to keep on the new path I was trying to create for myself.

 

 

 
I had no support in this from friends. People I was closest to did not approve of the changes I was trying to make. “I was in grad school and worked full-time and we still went out all the time—why can’t you do it?” was what I heard. Nobody was happy that I was trying to get my life together. Now, when I say “nobody”, I am not including my family in that, because I pretty much kept this from them. They are certainly glad I am doing better, but they didn’t know the extent of the issues I was having at the time. The friends I counted on the most were not there for me when I needed them. The ones who were there for me don’t live around here, but at least we could talk on the phone. But the people I really needed the most compassion, encouragement, and love abandoned me. I was tossed aside and pretty much forgotten. They continued to party and do all the things I used to do with them. Instead of making other plans with me that didn’t involve the bar, they just left me behind. I was basically told that they couldn’t NOT go out to the bars, that sitting around with me doing something chill and sober was boring. I understand that it is no fun to be around someone who is depressed all the time, but part of my unhappiness was being confused about my role in their lives. I was beginning to realize that I was never really a friend; I was just method by which they could gain popularity.

 

 

 
In the spring I decided to try to reconnect with a guy I had had a fling with a few years earlier. It was a weird situation: we really didn’t have a relationship, and at that time had not even seen each other for over three years. But we talked on the phone once in a while, and the conversations were always amazing. But I wrote him off the year before in a long email after some drama, but suddenly felt compelled to see what he was up to. In the spirit of my new life path, I wanted to see if he had made any changes. He said he had. He stopped drinking and smoking pot all the time, he was in school, he was starting a website. We began emailing and chatting online regularly, and eventually talked on the phone. I was going to write a blog for his website. We didn’t talk about our history together, which was good, because I still liked him a lot and knew I could easily get sucked into the drama. It was nice to have someone to talk to. I told him about everything I had been going through in the past year, and he gave me his insight and compassion. It was great! I never thought that a straight guy would really understand me, but he seemed to. We talked about the issues I was having with a friend, and he was so caring and wonderful when telling me his thoughts about it. It felt nice to have a friend like that.

 

 

 
Around the time that we reconnected I found out that I was not going to be part of a certain community event that I had been involved with for six years. The new people who took over, people whom I had helped and stupidly trusted, screwed me over big time and gave my job to somebody else. If they had told me beforehand that they were going in another direction, I would have at least respected them. But they just did it and said not a word to me about it. My friend told me, and I was pissed off. This friend, however, was still planning on helping out at the event, despite the way I had been lied to and disrespected by these people. He went back and forth between volunteering and not, until he finally told me he had to work that day and could not volunteer. I believed him.
Two of my friends from out of town were in Cleveland the weekend of the event, even though I was no longer participating. One was going to volunteer but changed his mind as soon as he got there. I was working that whole day at my retail job; we were in the middle of an arts festival. We had gone out the night before, the first time I had really been out in about six months. It was very awkward for me to be out and sober. I was worried. I didn’t know if I could have fun, or if anyone would think I was still cool or interesting. Would anyone even remember who I was? I was really scared. But it was a lot of fun, and the boys were all so happy to see me. My close friend, the one who was originally going to volunteer and then had to work, was there with his other friends, and some guy I didn’t know. My friend had told me a month earlier that he had broken up with his long-term boyfriend, but they were still living together. He had been dating someone new, but I didn’t know for how long or who it was. But there was a different guy out with him and his friends that night. My friend avoided me like the plague all evening.

 

 

 
I still had fun, but it was a mixed bag of emotions all weekend. I was upset about not being involved with this event, I felt weird being sober, something weird was going on with my close friend but I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but I had other friends around me who were happy to see me and supportive of my sobriety. I had to work the next morning so I left kind of early, and my close friend was talking to that random guy, hands on each other’s upper thighs, when I left. He said he had to work 12 hours the next day, so I told him he should leave soon. He told me they were going to let him come in at 10AM instead of 7AM, so he could stay out a bit. I reminded him that he could come by my place the next night for cocktails and appetizers before we all went out.

 

 
I could not sleep that night. It was exhilarating being out and being remembered and everyone telling me how good I looked. They wondered why I was drinking bottled water so I briefly explained. They thought it was cool that I recognized an issue and took care of it (they recognized this, generally, through beer goggles!). In the morning I went to work, and my close friend called a couple of times in the afternoon as I met a friend for my lunch break. He said he was at work, and asked what I thought about the guy he was with the night before. I told him that one of my other friends thought the guy was “skeevy”, and I said he just didn’t seem right for my friend. I told him he needed a more professional man, someone with his own money and house and everything—an adult! He said that the other guy he had been seeing was more like that. I had not met this other person, but I said that he needs someone who knows who he is and who won’t put up with any shit from my friend.
There was a major rainstorm that day, just as the arts festival was coming to a close. The friend I had gone to lunch with asked if I wanted to drive up to the other event to see how triflin’ it was, and I said no, that I just wanted to keep my distance. We ended up driving past it, and we saw lines of cars driving away because of the rain. The event had shut down around 6PM. My friend and I went out to eat. As we walked into the restaurant, the straight guy called me—I think this was the first time he had actually called me since we started emailing and chatting online. I let it go to voicemail, and then texted him to say we could talk later. When we talked that night (as I dolled myself up for the night), I told him the Reader’s Digest version of my drama, and we really had a great conversation. I remembered why I always loved talking to him. There was no pressure, nothing big, just two people sharing their thoughts. Wonderful!

 

 

 
Nobody came over for drinks and apps before the bar that night; I didn’t get home in time to prepare anything anyway. I picked up my California friend; I called my close friend on the way, and left him a message about hoping to see him out. I actually called a few times. As my Cali friend and I walked toward the bar’s front door, I saw my close friend, his friends, and the skeevy guy from the night before, walking down the sidewalk. I asked what was up, that I had been calling, why didn’t he come over to my place. He told me he didn’t get out of work until 8:30PM, and he couldn’t call because his phone died (I hear that a lot). He went right to his other friend’s house from work, he said. The next day, a bunch of us were going to Cedar Point. My close friend mentioned that he had to get up early for work the next day. “So I guess you’re not coming to Cedar Point?” I asked. He said no, that he was “mandated” to work the next day. I was upset, but told him that I understood if he had to work.
That was the last I saw of him. He and his friends slipped out of the bar without saying goodbye. It was a rough night for me, and my gut was telling me something was going on. I called him when I got home around 2:30AM, knowing he wouldn’t answer. I was crying and saying that I knew something was wrong, we needed to talk, this was a serious issue. I had trouble sleeping. He called me in the morning, saying he only heard part of my message (the part where I wasn’t crying, of course). I asked why he didn’t say goodbye the night before, and he said he couldn’t find me. I really couldn’t get into everything right then because I had to get ready for Cedar Point.

 

 

 
He called me three more times that day, and something just wasn’t right. I know his patterns. He was trying to cover something up. I had fun with my other friends at Cedar Point. But my gut was telling me that there was a problem, a serious problem with this other friend. My grandmother’s intuition had definitely seeped into my body.

How I Got Here, Part I

They say that the way you spend the first day of the year is the way you spend the rest of the year, and that was certainly true for me in 2008. It started off with a drunken New Year’s Eve party with far too many people in my apartment, many of whom I did not invite. No big deal for the ones I knew, but some people who were actually invited were just handing out my address to complete strangers. I was too drunk to care at the time. I barely remember it turning midnight, except that I greeted a friend’s mother with “Feliz Año Nuevo”. There was so much going on, and in the midst of it all, two people who should not have been making out were making out in my kitchen, and I lost it. That started a downward spiral. After the majority of people left I really freaked out and started breaking wine glasses; I’d take a drink out of a random glass and throw it onto the carpet. I was getting hysterical and there was broken glass everywhere, wine stains from guests were all over the floor and my kitchen counter, food spilled everywhere, the light bulb in the ceiling fan went out and it really pissed me off…after everyone left except one last drinking buddy who was also the first to arrive, I cried and cried and cried and finally went to sleep after he calmed me down somewhat. I awoke the next morning around 9, and cried again when I saw all the mess. There were shards of glass at every step, the carpet still stained from red wine, rice spilled on the electric can opener. What a metaphor for the rest of 2008: picking up the broken, stained pieces of my life and trying to make sense of it all. Where was I to go from there?

 

 

 

I did not feel much like drinking for the next few days, though there were those close to me—people who were at the party and saw me getting kray-zee after it was over—who kept pushing me to drink with them. Some people just don’t like to drink alone. I did that a lot over the years, especially in 2007. I wanted 2008 to start on a better foot after the hell that was 2007, but that did not happen. I tried telling my friends that the New Year’s party was a bad omen of things to come, but they thought I was being silly.

 

 

 

Serbian Christmas is January 7, and for two weeks before the holiday I had a sick, anxious feeling. I was suffering from massive anxiety and depression at the time, and had been for at least a year, but this feeling in my gut was something different. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew something terrible was coming. Before I went to church with my family for Christmas Eve, before we stopped to visit my sick grandmother, I had to relieve the tension. I did what I needed to do and felt immediately guilty yet relieved, and we went to visit Baba in the nursing home. She had been sick for over a year, but was doing fairly well this time. She was alert and talkative and happy to see us all. She looked healthier than she had for a while. We kissed and hugged her goodbye and went to church, and then to my uncle’s house for a bit. I spent the night at my parents’ house. My uncle stopped by to visit Baba before coming over for Christmas, and he said she looked bad. We were surprised since she had been doing pretty well the night before. But things change very rapidly, and Baba was tired of all the hospitals—she had been to the ER something like 19 times in the previous year or so. She didn’t want to do it anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

My mother called me before 8AM the next morning to tell me that she had died. It was devastating. I texted a friend and told him that I had known that something was going to happen—that anxiety was not all in my head like he usually thinks it is. Baba was very intuitive. When she died, I think that passed over to me. I had a feeling that something major was about to occur. It was very rough, those days ahead, watching all the relatives mourn, seeing people recognize their own mortality. Baba was in her 80s when she died, and had had a hard life at times, but she was full of love for the people she knew, and she (and my paternal grandmother) was the strongest woman I ever knew. I could only hope to someday be a strong and resilient as she was. She fought in the resistance in World War II with my grandfather and her brothers, she lost her home, had to leave much of her family behind, coming to America and not speaking the language. She took jobs and did what she had to do to build a better life for her family—it was always about her family. She had a strong faith in God and our Serbian Orthodox Church, she loved her Serbian people, she loved America, she loved her grandchildren more than life itself. She always expected more of me because I am the eldest, I was her first grandchild. She was never hesitant about expressing her disappointment in me, and I always felt bad when I knew she disapproved. I have hidden a lot from my family, and had to hide my tattoos from Baba! But that was out of respect. But now I realize that many things I have done in my life have been disrespectful to myself, which in turn disrespects my family. I don’t want to live that life anymore. I had fun, but I was really sad most of the time. I was very self-destructive in many ways—I never did drugs, but I sure as hell drank a lot. There were plenty of people who drank more than I did, and who behaved more scandalously than I did, but I have always considered myself a family woman, a nice Serbian girl, but, really, I didn’t act like it.

 

 

 

 

 

A few days after Baba’s funeral I began graduate school. On the second day of class, my great uncle passed away. This was exactly a week after my grandmother died. I was still fucked up about that, and now I had another loss to deal with. I was having major anxiety, and did what I normally did to temporarily relieve that anxiety. I got drunk later that night, the night before the funeral. We had a lot of food left from Baba’s funeral lunch, and even more from my uncle’s. I took a lot of it home and invited friends over two nights in a row to eat and get my mind off things a bit. I had a glass or two of wine at the first dinner, but after that didn’t drink much. We do a service 40 days after a person’s death to commemorate their soul reaching heaven, and I did three shots of whiskey at the parastos for my uncle. That was around the time that Kosovo declared independence, and the bishops asked Serbs around the world to be sure to fast for Lent, and to dedicate the fast to our suffering Serbian brothers and sisters of Kosovo. I had never done the whole seven week fast; one day a few times a year was difficult enough for me! We fast like vegans, so it’s pretty challenging when I am a hard-core carnivore. But I felt like this was something I had to do, and I knew my grandmother would have been proud of me.

 

 

 

 

 

I had not had a drink for two or three weeks before the fast began. I don’t think I necessarily intended to stop drinking forever at that point. Baba did not like it when I drank, and I thought this would be a nice tribute to her. The fast was difficult to begin, but I had a friend who was also fasting for Lent, and that was helpful. Mainly, though, I was doing it because I am an Orthodox Christian and I knew I was supposed to. I certainly did not condemn anyone who didn’t do the fast, because most of my family did not. It was the right time for me to do it. I was never tempted to break the fast (though I did have a piece of cake on my Dad’s birthday), and I really adjusted well to the vegan lifestyle. I was depressed the whole time because I was still mourning my grandmother and uncle, and because I had serious problems with a friend, but the fast and the purpose behind it kept me going. School was very stressful as well, and I was concerned about money (like always). But the constant harping from friends about my not going out was getting to me; I was daily accused of being anti-social. I really didn’t have time to go out because of school, but I just really did not want to. I realized that I had a drinking problem, and it is difficult to avoid drinking if you keep going to bars with the people you used to drink with, especially with your main enabler buying you drink after drink. I had a fully-stocked bar at home and never drank. I drank a lot at home, alone, passing out on the couch pretty much every night. If I got home from work at 3PM, I would have a mojito in my hand by 3:01PM. I was a binge drinker. I drank every weekend—Sundays at the bar with the boys!—and most nights of the week. I had to completely change my lifestyle if I was going to stop drinking. But some of the people I considered my closest friends did not understand. They took it as a personal rejection. They could not see that this was a better way for me to live. What kind of life is it to be drunk every night, being scandalous and disrespecting my body in public? Where was I going with that shit? But some people didn’t care if I was trying to be a better, healthier, happier person. They just saw that their popular drinking buddy went home before the party ended. 

July 4th

     I sit alone and hear the fireworks this July 4^th, as I ritualistically chew up my food and spit it out—I am nurturing an eating disorder threes days; better than cutting, I reckon, which has become bourgeois for me, silly and just plain leaves too many scars.

     I could go outside to get a better view; the bright lights and smoke of the holiday are on either side of me, but I can see some sparks peeking out from behind a building diagonally across the street.  That’s enough for me.

     It’s not even that I have been a casual observer to life for the past six months; rather, I have simply dropped out of it, I have ceased to exist or to wonder about the world around me.  In my isolation have come countless epiphanies, various theories and ideas to explain the situation I find myself in, and have continued to find myself in throughout my residence on Planet Earth.  There is no real explanation that satisfies my curiosity or fervent desire—NEED—to know who I am and why I am here.  But I shall collect all that I uncover, alone, and someday sort through it to find exactly what it is that I need.

     I remember my early days as a cutter, junior high, when I wished I could be a pill popper and champagne whore like Marilyn Monroe, confessing my most disturbing thoughts to my Freudian analyst and falling unceremoniously and pointlessly in love with my co-stars.  What a life that was for me, age 14, aligning my future with those who are most tragic and abandoned, pledging to be a Hollywood mess but beautiful and misunderstood nonetheless.  And so I did what I could to create my own suburban-Ohio-daughter-of-Serbian-immigrants version of that oft-told tale of triumph and loss, but why?  Why not be happy and live the stable, loving life I was living, the comfort of a two-parent home, the dog, the younger siblings who looked up to me, the good grades, humour, crowd of friends, knack for story telling and creative dress?  Why pretend to be fucked up?

     But I was not trying to gain everyone’s attention.  And it wasn’t even to gain the attention of the boy-I-knew-I-would-marry-and-become-enmeshed-in-a-drug-and-alcohol-and-violence-infused-relationship-that-could-only-end-in-suicide (mine, natch).  I needed the attention of a friend, the friend who enlightened me as to the true nature of said boy.  He cared enough to reveal the painful truth about my boy, to let me know that he was not what he appeared to be—but what my would-be BFF didn’t know was that what he told me would only deepen my passion, feed my need for drama and self-destruction, and play right into my fantasy of a hot mess of a life with him.

     This most American of celebrations is coming to a close.  The pathetic show in the distance has been on the verge of extinction since its inception; in the windows in the building across from mine I can see the reflection of the two larger celebrations I sit in between.  I am always interested in those who struggle, the lost potential, rather than the self-confident sure thing.  Will there be a grand finale for the sad sparklers I spy in the sky?  Or will they simply succumb to the superiority of the ostentatious coloured flames of the big city spectaculars?  It’s better to burn out than to fade away.  Why have I always believed in that so wholeheartedly?

     Upon hearing that my perfect boy—Face, as I took to calling him after a Davy Jones nickname on The Monkees—was indeed a drug user, a binge drinker, and a petty thief—and despite his storied pedigree—his mother was president of the PTA, his father a well-respected doctor, his older sister a child prodigy at the piano who was now playing around the globe for heads of state—or perhaps because of his storied pedigree—my boy was not the image people projected onto him.  Neither, in fact, was I.  But not to the degree that he was not.  This is perfect, I thought.  I was rightfully distressed by this information, it did help me to formulate my game plan for the future we were to have together.

     Out of nowhere, after the lines of cars fill the street going in either direction, there are signs of a last goodbye from The Little Celebration That Could.  It’s not terribly loud or enticing, but it is an effort, and that is all I want.  A few extra splashes of colour to help turn down the sheets for the night, a short round of crackling and popping so you don’t forget they were there, the faint smell of smoke that lingers for just seconds…

     …and it is finished.  The last few explosions sound like gunfire—I hear some white boys fighting loudly on the street, and I stand in the window enough to hear what they are saying without being noticed in case witnesses are called.

     So the cutting started like that, a reaction to disappointment—even though I secretly felt satisfied with Face’s crashing off the pedestal upon which I had so precariously placed him.  In a way I was quite pleased with my own fall from grace, and it didn’t seem unnatural at all.  Back then it was not as bad as it got in my twenties—the cutting as well as the need for drama was pretty mild, more fantasy than anything, but just by being so obsessed with self-destruction I was setting myself up for some serious shit when I grew up. 

     At age 14 I used a Snoopy pin my best friend had given to me, and I didn’t cut particularly deeply.  I wasn’t trying to kill myself, obviously, but I wanted to give the impression that I was depressed and needed attention to stop me from sinking irrevocably deeper into the abyss.  In band—I played flute—I would sit next to Thomas—he played French horn—the friend who had revealed Face’s flaws to me.  Face was also in band—he played the trumpet—and I would spend most of class trying to get a good angle out of the corner of my eye to watch his every move.  Sometimes I would playfully cut my wrist at the end of class when our instruments were packed away and we waited for the bell.  I just wanted to trace along my blue veins with some small scratches, nothing serious enough to even draw blood.  I wasn’t into blood until later, I think. 

     Thomas would express concern over my behaviour and it made me happy.  I just needed to know that someone cared, that they noticed me.  I was always the funny one, the smart ass, the one who gave great advice.  But I was always depressed deep down.  Why?  I didn’t think of my cutting as a manifestation of the innate sadness I lived with; I didn’t really try to understand it at all.  It wasn’t something I concerned myself with much, it was just something I did occasionally and it never left permanent marks or anything, so it was pretty incidental to any other issues that I recognized in myself. 

     At  14 I was pretty self-aware.  I had started reading Alan Watts and Ram Dass that year, and was really trying to figure my shit out.  I’m not saying that I fully understood what these guys were saying, but something about it resonated with me and made me push forward despite my depression.  As lonely as I felt at times, as suicidal, worthless, and pathetic, I can’t say that I ever truly felt hopeless.  That came later.  I dreamed of a dramatic life, filled with drinking and drugs and infidelities—but equally filled with prolific creativity, success, and wealth.  I wanted to be on both sides at once, I wanted to know everything, feel every emotion, experience all that is great and heartbreaking in life.  I thought it was the only way to live, to have a life worth living.  Do it all!  In high school I discovered Teresa Stratas, a Greek-Canadian opera singer, and she really had an impact on this vision.  I was more obsessed with Maria Callas because she was literally a tragic heroine, suffering throughout her life and never really being happy with the love of her life—Ari Onassis—but living every day anyway, despite her terminal melancholy.  And she was dead, so she was a role model.  But La Stratas was younger, still alive, still suffering, though she didn’t come across as quite as misunderstood and scandalous as La Callas.  But she spoke to me through a story she told about her youth in Toronto, growing up the daughter of immigrants, something I can relate to.  She was maybe nine or ten, and she was overwhelmed by everyday life as a Greek, which she described as “living every emotion, every day”.  At one point in her very young existence she tried to commit suicide.  I never thought about suicide before I was a teenager, but the idea of living each emotion each day fascinated me.  What a way to live!  I wanted it, I wanted to be fully human, real, to understand who I am through every experience every day.  I think about her statement once in a while, but I really am living that way now, and it’s not as fun as I expected it would be.