dear diary

I've always liked to write to make sense of my emotions, or simply for catharsis. I was given a hand-me-down journal when I was in second grade, which I still have.

I like to go back and re-read my journals occasionally. The early entries are cute and innocent. The most recent are desperate and searching. The rest are anything and everything in between, just...my life.

This one specific journal holds what's probably the turning point in my life...when I went from normal to sad. Eighth grade. That's when I started hurting myself, or at least the first time I wrote about it.  I wasn't that girl in the bathroom with a razor, I just started scratching myself with my fingernails. "I feel like I deserve it," I wrote.

I...have...arrived...

So, I'm partly watching an old Without a Trace, kinda eating dinner, and browsing these internets, and something made me google the phrase "presto change-o eureeka's castle"

Then, my friends, the unthinkable happened...

See that first result?  That's my xanga, from 2005.
Whaaaat?
Ridiculous, but it proves that I'm just as strange/nerdy as I was six years ago, since I was googling the same thing.

Alright, set your watches. . . my fifteen minutes start now. . .

perspective

I feel that my attention span is getting smaller as I'm getting older.  I have dozens of unfinished posts from the past few months that will probably never be published.  Why is it so hard for me to finish things?  When I cleaned my living room (should probably just call it the shop) I collected so many unfinished projects.  My bathroom wall was abandoned before I even primed.  Even now, as I type, there are three or four dishes sitting is soapy water, waiting for me to come back and rinse. 

I have such great intentions, but my follow-through rate is pitiful.

But, let's put this in perspective...
A year ago I started a new job.  During the two months prior to that I was unemployed and beyond depressed.  By July of 2008 I'd lost count of the different medicines I'd tried that year.  Nothing worked.  I slept, cried, cut, and slept some more, all the while overwhelmed by a desperate desire to end it.
It was bad.  You don't even know.  [And for that matter, I don't even know.  My mind blocks out most memories from that fark days]


So, the books that pile up, unfinished, the laundry that waits to be hung, the four month old unsent birthday cards. . . its all going to be ok .  I have a [seriously] long way to go, but I'm moving in the right direction.

Remembering is bittersweet

I can't deny that certain songs, no matter how much I hate them, are linked to memories. Unsually specific but fragmented, these are sometimes my clearest recollections.

For example, both "My Name Is" and "Slim Shady" make me think of a week at my grandparents house.

It was Spring Break. I didn't have much to do, and being a 14 or 15 year old I had not yet learned how to entertain myself, so I watched a lot of tv. At home we had a more basic cable package, but my grandparents had what seemed like endless options. That week I was introduced to, and became hooked on, MTV. There still showed music videos then, and I watched Eminem over, and over, and over. . . I'm not sure if I even liked the song, but I was so enthralled with music videos that I never changed the channel.

The important things are sketchy. . . It was either the spring break of ninth or tenth grade. I want to say I was with my mom only, but that doesn't make sense. I can't remember anything else about that trip.

Except that, I think, my grandmother was dying.

Her cancer had come back and was destroying her quickly. I remember, later, standing by her bed, barely recognizing her. It was, of course, not her real bed, but a hospital bed they had moved into the bedroom. I remember sitting beside my grandpa when the coroners came to get her body. . . watching them push a covered stretcher through the living room. I remember walking beside him at the funeral, past the casket, for one last goodbye.

I wish I could remember more. More from the happy times, from the remission, when I usually forgot about the cancer. Most of my memories are short and vague, supplemented and sustained by stories and photos.

grapefruit juice.
onions.
the horse across the fence (he was allergic to carrots).
orange and grape soda in the garage refridgerator.
over-sensitive smoke detector.
old man pjs.
"yonder."
wheel of fortune.
bedspreads.
aquanet.
cushioned toilet seat.
boston terriers down the street.
grand.
westark (pre-uafs).
dr. floyd
front porch glider, green.
the crown vic.
long necklaces.
white teddy bears.
touch lamps.
orangsicles.

A good friend is cheaper than therapy.

I have a bad memory. . . short-term, long-term, really-really-short term, whatever. There are holes.
I tend to block out bad memories especially, which is why I have little-to no recollection of seventh and eighth grade.

But sometimes I get caught up in the good memories, and its like a slideshow rolling through my mind, accompanied by a certain Cinderella song that makes me all the more nostalgic.

I'm quick to call myself a loner (even "hermit," if you will). . . and I am. I'm also an introvert, and usually content to be by myself.
But if I'm honest (which is hardest in the mirror), sometimes I get really, really lonely.

I miss my friends. Especially these kids tonight:












I think its ok to be sad and to miss people. I recognize that the reason I'm alone as much as I am is primarily due to choices I have made (and continue to make). But even if I enjoy being alone, I still can get lonely sometimes.

diphenwhat?

I had more fun tonight than I have had in a long time.

The EEEs were fantastic, the whole show was great. How about the Chiotes? They've come a long way from cavemen. I giggled at the creepy tiger blasters "preshow," but I think it creepy my friend Ellen out.



Xanax + diphenhydramine = serious sleep. Just ask my friends from church who resorted to yelling through my open window when I didn't answer their calls (I slept right through 'em...thats some good stuff) (not that I recommend it).

But thats what its about...community...yelling through windows, checking in on people, phone calls, faxing resumes, etc...

I don't think I knew what I was looking for when I showed up at Epoch, but I knew it when I found it.



I'm still wearing pants. Its 3am.

memories of Tiny-ness

I write a lot. I've had some sort of journal since I was 5 or so. I love re-reading them. The really old ones always make me laugh. I was a funny kid, bandannas around the waist and all.

Here are a few throwback examples (completely unedited):

1991 November, 2
I'm at home. My sister is making an open sine for our butey shope. It is verey cold here. We are going to my gamas next wednesday. by

I wrote that when I was six. For the record, "butey shope" was a beauty shop. We weren't juvie pimps or Rahabs.

11-21-91
I am at school. I'm done with my work And so is Amanda, Amanda is my bestfriend. We get in fites sometimes. She is moveing away. She is going to by a friendship nekls for me, Amanda, and Sarah. I want to by one for me and her sens she is moveing away. My teacher is Mrs. Poole. I got my lunchbox stuk today. It was in my backpack. The handl broke off, by

I actually remember getting my lunch box stuck. It was quite the tragedy at the time. I think this was the purple one with the long strap, the one I got to be like the cool kids. Prior to that I had a a pink one with Barbie on it, which may explain why I asked my first friend Barbara if I could call her Barbie. She said yes, but we weren't friends for long after that.


Speaking of being a weird little kid, does anyone else remember this?



Pretty sure it was my sister's favorite (which means it was my favorite too, cause that's how little sisters roll).
Creepiest line: "I may not be in love but let me tell ya, I'm in heat!"
Oh Dolly. . .

Catching Up

Its been an exciting week in the land of DRC.

On Tuesday Ellen and I went to the TOMS event at Whole Foods.




Generally I'm afraid of commitment when it comes to shoes (much like curtains, hair cuts, and boys), so I avoid buying new ones til I absolutely must. I've wanted these for awhile those, and hello stimulus check, so here's to my first pair of new shoes in a year[ish].




Maybe Andy Warhol was right. My name is in print! It may only be in the feedback section, but hey, baby steps folks, baby steps. . .






Speaking of baby steps. . . Harleigh is going to be a big sister!



I've chilled out quite a bit in the last couple years, but my OBU pals will tell you that for awhile every thing out of my mouth was "Baby Har-Har this" or "Harleight that." She really is the cutest kid ever. She'll be 5 in a couple months and that blows me away. She makes my heart happy.

A classic:



And a bit more recent:





I love her.