Sigh.

Physically, mentally and emotionally tired.
Facing lots of decisions.
Realizing I don't handle stress very well.
I don't handle much very well.
Wondering how I make it so easy to avoid thinking about my own problems.
Worrying about this interview I have tomorrow.
Hoping it goes well, but not caring if it doesn't.
Testing my strength.

People are mean.

I have short hair.

I used to have thick, long, frizzy brown hair that weighed about 30 pounds. Just like my height, it was always a target for loving jabs. Those jokes never bothered me, they even gave me two long-standing nicknames; Schlinz Boofonts and Big Bird (trademarked by Mike Davidson.)

When I was twenty-two I studied abroad in Florence, Italy. I look back at it with only fond memories. Four months spent in a beautiful, historical and relaxing country alleviated a lot of the depression I was feeling while at Syracuse. A completely foreign environment was aesthetically and mentally stimulating. I used all of my senses to soak up the language and culture. My goal was to depart in December as an honorary Italian. And what better way to jump start the transformation than chop off all my hair?

After all, every Italian girl was doing it. Choppy, spiky, sophisticated short hair crowned the olive skinned natural beauties from various regions of Italy. If I couldn't afford the Miss Sixty jeans or the knee high black leather boots, a hair cut was in order. On a train ride to Isola D'Elba I was feeling particularly bold and declared to my female contingent of travel companions, "I'm chopping it off!" Theresa, Nika and Margot were completely supportive and even pushy about my decision to buzz it. Liz and Deb were wide eyed and hesitant about supporting such a rash decision. After returning from our trip to Elba I promptly chopped my hair, telling the multi-lingual hairdresser, "Cut as much off as you can without making it look stupid." Her English was very good because my hair looked fabulous and I felt the most beautiful I ever remember feeling.

That feeling ended when I returned to America. Instead of having Italian professors at my school tell me how wonderful I looked, instead of having my host mom whisper "Bellisima" instead of garnering stares and compliments from foreign friends and fellow Americans I was asked "Why" and called "Dyke-y" and stared at.

While at Syracuse people stared at me in line at the post office and whispered. In Charleston a homeless man told me to pour Miracle Grow atop my head and children audibly whispered to their parents, "Is that a boy or a girl?" In Berkeley, a city that is supposed to be so liberal, I've received some of the worst and most cutting insults. From a parked car, a loud shout, "DAMN IS THAT A MAN?" and the worst today. . .

For about five uncomfortable and excruciating minutes I was followed by three thugs. While wishing my grandfather a happy 80th birthday I heard yelling behind me. I was engrossed in my conversation, which switched over to a two-way call with my parents. Suddenly I realized they were yelling at me, just a girl walking down the street, inoffensively and modestly.
"Dyke, I bet your girlfriend has got a bigger booty than you."
"Dyke I bet your girlfriend would make out with my girlfriend."
"Dyke I wanna see your titties."
"Dyke, lick my girlfriend's pussy."
"Dyke" "Dyke." "Dyke."
I tried to ignore it. All I wanted to do was talk to my parents, walk to the BART, get to a museum and de-stress from my recent broken heart. How embarrassing to walk down the street and have everyone else hear you being verbally abused? How embarrassing to have your parents hear you being assaulted? How awful to feel so helpless and so undeserving?

I like my hair short. Maybe one day I'll grow out it, right now I don't have the patience. Frankly, I don't have much desire. But the comments hurt. People going out of their way to make someone feel so horrible? To yell so loudly and so ignorantly and so emphatically? So offensively! I'm not a lesbian and the comments still cut so deep.

I ducked into a bookstore and tried not to blubber on the phone to my parents, telling them I couldn't decipher what the three guys were saying. Fearing continued harassment I busied myself in the bookstore, upset that three guys ruined my day, made me feel unsafe and unable to continue to my destination.

How can someone go out of their way to yell at someone they have never met, who never even looked their way, and make them feel so violated? And how can someone so publicly slander someone without being reprimanded by a bystander on the street? How was I so helpless? Why wasn't I strong enough to turn to them and tell them to stop? To tell them to 'Fuck off'? To tell them anything to stop?

So next time I just want to step outside to take a walk, do I hang my head and avoid any confrontation? Or do I walk proudly and stand up for myself? Unfortunately, I think the latter would be accompanied by tears. Even more unfortunate is that this will probably happen again.
What do I do? I just have short hair. I didn't do deserve what happened today.

Simma down-na

Ugh. Again. Limb torn off. But this time, it needs to stay off. And as hard as it's going to be to resist the urge to clumsily and half-heartedly reattach it, I must.

I haven't broken up with someone since high school. Somehow this relationship didn't just end seamlessly and naturally like those of the past. This was disastrous.

I take a lot of the blame, but I don't take full credit.

It sucks when you want something to work out so badly, or think that something should work itself out and it doesn't and shouldn't. Acceptance will come eventually, though currently it seems like never, because right now it's just a bunch of "Whys?" "Hows?" and "What the fucks?"

I'm trying to tell myself that some things aren't meant to be. I'm trying not to think about his smell right after he shaves or his hands on my waist when we're jumping over the waves. Look at that torture I submit myself to. I guess it's natural.

Love translates to hurt so easily. And hurt, for me, evolves into hatred. This is tough, suppressing the hurt. I need to feel my feelings. Be strong. Because hurt and hatred will eventually become tiring and healing will begin. I guess I have to remember Donna Summer and her simplistic yet truthful prose, "I will survive." Hey? Hey?

raw.

I'm annoyed.

Well, let me push my annoyance aside for a second exclaim my happiness for my friend Megan who was married this past weekend. I hope I look as beautiful and elated as she did. I also hope that my friends bring jello shots to my wedding.

But now back to my annoyance. . .I'm annoyed that I'm placing conditions on my happiness. That tiny word, if, catalyzed every tear, every worry, every regret.

If only I moved to Charleston, I wouldn't be so lonely, I wouldn't feel the pressure to get a "real" job, I wouldn't have to work so hard to make friends.

If only I stayed at home, I wouldn't have trouble saving money, I would be able to find a permanent position, I wouldn't be in such debt, I wouldn't be so sad, I wouldn't be so lonely.

If only I moved to San Diego, I would be so much closer to the beach, have so much to be happier about at the beach, would be so much more relaxed.

I have a disease. People call it laziness, ungratefulness, weakness. They call it a lot of things when they don't want to understand that someone's mind is constantly cloudy, constantly riddled with run on sentences and unfinished paragraphs. Or they call it nothing and avoid it, avoid the listlessness I so effortlessly embody.

I call it depression. I've just recently begun to admit to myself that I have this disease, but hesitate to mention it to others. But surely, it must be obvious.

• Loss of appetite. Check.
• Feelings of hopelessness. Check.
• Withdrawal from activities and loved ones. Check and check.
• Changes in sleep pattern. Check.
• Low energy. Check.
• Wanting to disappear for a long time. Check.

Perhaps you feel some of the above symptoms occasionally. What about every day? Does it affect your existence? Does it affect your loved ones? Does it affect your health? I'll naively guess that it doesn't. I'll naively guess that you don't cry yourself to sleep or shy away from co-workers or resist applying to jobs because of detrimental thoughts about yourself.

So, I'm annoyed that my depression caused me to make a rash decision. Move to California! Run away! Certainly yes, it had been a dream of mine to move to California since I was in high school. And of course I was looking for adventure. But I didn't stop to think if it was the right time. I didn't stop to consider whether I needed more time to get better. See, before I left I was told by a health professional that I was depressed. I treated it half-heartedly with a month of therapy, then decided moving away from my problem would be the best long term medication. How silly of me to think that. How ridiculous of me to not realize the problem is myself.

And now I'm annoyed again because the grass is always greener, especially sprinkled with some hindsight.

So what do I do? Do I complain to you reader that you don't know how tedious and unrewarding it is to rifle through job search engines like CareerBuilder all day and not hear back from any of them? To work an unfulfilling job as a retail puppet? To have no money to escape from my ever growing list of regrets permeating through my brain cells?

How do I assess what I want from what I want to escape from?

I wish I could sleep but there are too many questions

I used to be a good sleeper. When I was in college I used to sleep more than necessary. Instead of working hard and playing hard, I studied for midterms and finals if I felt I was at risk of failing, drank a lot of Starbucks and generally hid under a few pounds of unruly boofont. Sure, sure, I had some good times here and there, but some of the fondest memories that remain are the times I spent under my covers hibernating through unbearable college life. And while there still remain aspects of my life I'd like to hide under the covers from, my ability to nap has dwindled while my insomnia has only been magnified.

There's no use in trying to deny the ticker tape of worries and thoughts that fall through my head during the late evening hours when my body is physically exhausted. Though my job is sedentary and monotonous providing little stimulation except the need to have an arsenal of quips to retaliate my co-workers with, I come home tense. I run, hoping to tire myself out, but sometimes that proves to be more mentally agitating. When running I try to focus on anything but the mileage ahead. So I focus on the unpleantries in my life.

Current tracks on that playlist include: 'To Move Home or Not to Move Home.' 'Another Internship- TRY A JOB! 'Health Insurance NONONO' and 'Why.' The last track is also the title of my disappointing album. Why did I move here? Why did I think anything would be different? Why am I the way I am? Why am I so stuck?

Stuck. My head on my pillow, my eyes closed and my imagination in overdrive. I envision myself stuck in glue, stuck in plastic. I can't move, I can't speak, I can't get the help I need.

The moving home thing is what has been keeping me awake lately.
I moved out here because I wanted to be an adult and so far I've failed. Do I move back home in order to recuperate although I'll be almost 26 and without a job or really anything to show for myself? Or do I continue to stay stuck in California? Do I pull myself up from my bootstraps and try to better myself against all odds (see: worries, laments, complaints, regrets, troubles)? That would be what someone stable would do. Someone strong. Or is that what someone stubborn would do?

Moving so often, especially this past move to California, has shown me your problems follow you wherever you go. That's common knowledge, folks. It just resonates so much stronger when it actually permeates your existence. . .for more than 5 years. I'm not sure if staying here I will fix the problem or just encourage it. Will going home just make me feel like a failure? Or have I learned my lesson, have I realized I need to seriously regroup and refocus with a strong, unbiased support group backing me? I don't know. I need to stop asking myself questions, especially questions I can't answer.

I don't know what to do.

I was dumped, in case you didn't know. You probably didn't, because no one reads this, and you probably also didn't know, because I didn't tell you.

So here's the update, basically now I'm alone and it feels pretty crappy. Like I lost a limb. I'll have to learn how to function without something I took for granted for so long.

And yeah, it hurts a lot too. That limb was just torn off. But I treated it pretty poorly, so it's like, you know, eating fatty foods every day of your life until one day your arteries get clogged, and you're like, you know, shit, i should have eaten more vegetables.

But let's stick with the limb analogy for now (forget about the arteries), there's always the option of reattaching it or finding a replacement, a prosthetic. The thing with investing in a prosthetic is that it's artificial, it's fake, it's never like the one you were born with, the one you were meant to have. However, you can learn to live with it, function with it. That too may end up needing replacements. It may be that instead of replacing the limb immediately, you choose to live without one. For now or forever. It may be more difficult, but it could also prove to be rewarding. Wow, look what I can do with one limb, when I used to do it with two. Things are still possible, things are still achievable.

Reattaching though. . .that's the trickiest procedure. Gory. It may take more than one surgery. And after surgery, there's always recovery time. The scars are a constant reminder. A reminder of, oh shit, look what I almost lost. It may bring emotional hurt and it may bring enhanced appreciation. Nerves may be severed, things may never be the same, and you may wonder if you should have just gone for a new limb, or no limb. But is it worth it to wonder?

Is it worth to wonder anything? Is it worth it to wonder what happened? Should I just move on? Should I just forget? Just erase? Move back home? Start new? Or do I beg? Plead my case? Promise on top of promise? Or do I wait? Which is the most lugubrious of processes, the most unrewarding, time consuming anxiety ever.

No one has an answer, everyone has advice, but no one is an expert, I wish I had been nice.

A haiku?

What goes around comes around.
Karma is in fact, a bitch.
I hurt.

Dear Diary, Where are you? Where am I?

I must have been 9 or 10 when I started recording my best friends full names, sloppily written in purple ink. After I read Harriet the Spy, I started spying on my neighbors with my brother. We hid behind bushes and trees. He held rocks to throw and I clutched my notebook to jot down their reactions. My journals give clues to who I am, but they do not explain me in my entirety, in fact, they miss a lot of the good stuff, the happy moments. There are holes. If you read my journals and if you read my blog, you do not know me. You know about the things I feel on a certain day. You may surmise after reading a collection of my blogs about me and that is okay. You learn about me from my blogs, just as I learn about myself when I take a peak at my old journals.

I usually scan my old journals when I'm bored and searching for a sense of worth or a sense of who I am. Today I was struggling, feeling a bit confused about who I am and what I've become. It's evident through my actions and my life in California that I'm not happy and I'm not good. In fact, I'm angry. I decided to dig deeper. I read my journals from when I spent a summer in Charleston. Reading them I found myself blushing, my stomach churning. A summer spent vying for the attention of boys? A summer spent wondering what boys wanted me? Let me make it clear, however, that I had the best time in Charleston; I laid in the sun all day and made friends who I had fun times with at local watering holes. But my mental well-being was obviously not at it's prime. And continued reading to old journals continues to paint a picture of depression and insecurity.

The most important journal that is missing is the one I kept while working with Americorps when I was at my happiest. When I wasn't tired from working 10 hour days I would sit at my computer and write about serving my community, building connections with my teammates, and the at-risk I worked with daily. I wondered if I was making a difference, if I was wasting my time, wondering what solutions would solve child abuse or poor education and fretting about the teammates I would leave in June. Real problems. Problems outside of myself.

My family moved and those journals from 2002-2003 were lost in the move. I swear they're up in an attic someplace, but I fear they're stuck on my old computer that was given to an ex-boyfriend through my brother, who claims that the ex is holed up in somewhere in Vermont.

So now what? Do I track down my high school boyfriend someplace in the woods? I think I'll pass. Do I sit on my bed and try to remember my emotions and frustrations and triumphs from that year? That's impossible. Do I reflect on that year and try to figure out the formula for happiness? It's a start.

I love writing in a journal. Is is immature for me to do it? Does it hold me back? I don't know. I think from reading past journals that the only thing holding me back is myself. I've taken one crucial step to mend some trauma from the past, but there is a lot more that I need to do. I'm just not sure what. My journals, missing or present, unfortunately do not have that answer.

In other news. . .

How does Trader Joe's manage to make quality grub for people who barely manage to live paycheck to paycheck? I just devoured a goat cheese and garlic personal pizza accompanied by a glass of flat coca cola, and damn, I'm marveled by the quality of cheap packaged food and the nastiness of flat coca cola. Ek.

Some other things I've marvled by at the current moment:

• The massive bruises on my knees. What was SHE doing? they all stare and wonder. Not what you think, but I can't remember how I got them, so maybe that IS a possibility.
• A former roommate and high school buddy is getting married in a few weeks and just bought a house. She's really short. But I'll keep that marvel for this bullet point as well.
• That I live paycheck to paycheck. Today I had to return $50 worth of nonsense to Target in order to make rent. I think I have $4 left over for milk for my cereal this week.
  
• I get paid little over minimum wage and am a college graduate. This is not such much of a marvel as it is a serious PROBLEM.
• My dad asked me to do some "freelance writing" for him.
  

That last one is pretty marvelous, isn't it? I've always wanted to get paid to write and here I get my chance. Write about 20 architectural or design wonderments in Chicago for a cell phone tour. Easy, right? Of course not. I've never been to Chicago, I barely paid attention in any of my art history classes in college and am so overwhelmed by the thought of having 100s of people actually hear what I've written that I spend more time pulling my hair out. Fortunately for me my boss is my father and he understands my ridiculous insecurities and hasn't put the pressure on. 10 blips instead of 20? That's fine. . .

But c'mon. Shouldn't I be using this as a test? To see if I can really do the whole freelance thing? Don't I want to have a "book" of writing samples to further my desire to become a writer? Shouldn't I prove something to myself? Show myself that I can do it? And do it well!?

Yes. I should. I should stop worry and just do it. No one is an expert. This is my test and I can pass it. The results will be. . .marvelous.

Unexplainable bruises.

Last night was bizarre. I broke up with my boyfriend out of frustration that has been building since January. It wasn't really planned, it was spontaneous irrationality. Constant arguing, perpetual reading between the lines and suppressed insecurities mounted to a tipping point. It wasn't even in person. When I called him and flatly told him my decision he asked me if I was on something. My voice was so toneless, so emotionless that I could have been flat-lining. If I checked my pulse I probably was flat-lining. My heart was breaking. Why are relationships so difficult? Is anyone's relationship without tremors?

I hung up after my eerily calm complaints and arguments for disengaging our relationship. After sitting for a moment I immediately regretted my decision, I called him back masking my pleads with frustrated desires. I'm not sure I even made sense. But I hung up on him after more static communication. I shut my light off, curled up in my bed and waited for sleep to comfort me. Five minutes later I decided to drag my roommate to a work party down the street.

We made it to the "party" when it was breaking up. My gangly manager was swaying back and forth with a lukewarm Natty ice as his pseudo-gavel. He used it for emphasis during his lengthy diatribe about our new manager who he can't stand. A few of my other co-workers were nodding and smiling at our manager's goofy display, but kept hinting at their desired departure. Mike and I stood disappointed that we weren't drunk and that the "party" wasn't much of a. . .party. But after a few beers on an empty stomach and a dance party, Mike was passed out and I was spray painting my frustrations away in the cold, letting the fumes and the artistry take my mind off my aching.

I came home and passed out. He came to me. Was I still drunk? It was dreamlike. I wanted him to stay forever. I wanted him to go away. I just wanted everything to be back to normal, whenever that was. . .was it ever? He was so warm. He's always so warm. I'm always so cold. That's an analogy for the way our hearts are too. He's so good, I'm so awful. It's makes it easy for me to hurt him.

And now I'm awake. Somehow I have bruises all over my legs. Big, plum colored, plum sized bruises. I've got a pile of dishes in the kitchen, a big assignment due for my father, a rent check i cannot afford and a wall of laundry with a smell that will haunt me until Thursday when I can finally afford to wash it. And then there's that hole in my heart that I'm not sure is repairable overnight. Does it require mending of a relationship or coming to terms with past trauma from unrelated situations? It's all too much to think about on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

Let's just start all over.

A visit from a dead friend

Two nights ago my dead friend, John, came to me in a dream. My boyfriend claims someone dead cannot be your friend, but I disagree. I suppose "friend" is a verb and since he is dead he cannot act a friend, I still hold John close to my heart. And I cherish the dream moments when he and I surprisingly reunite, for those odd, unlikely and unexplainable scenarios dreams create.

This dream came after a day of contemplation and a nightcap of tears and Nyquil. What happened to my life? Why hasn't anything happened in my life? What am I going to make happen? Why is everything so fucked up? Why can't I just start over? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? Sometimes the questions become too much and instead of ignoring them, I answer them with tears. Ineffective, self-loathing tears.

John's appearance startled me even in my dream. He appeared as a ghost. In my dream I was so happy to see him, it had been so long. He told me to quiet down, no one was supposed to see him. His human like presence disappeared and he became a voice. He was warning me, saying, "Lindsay, I have something important to tell you." Then I woke up. Why didn't I get to hear his warning?

My dead friend took his life. It was completely unexpected. He hid his unhappiness with cynical jokes and outrageous goofiness. I had just come back from Italy and was getting my nails done with my sister and our friend Catherine. Megan, a mutual friend of John and I, called me to tell me he died. I didn't cry. I called my brother who loved John almost as much as I did. He was also shocked. Rumors of suicide were heard days later. A speeding car, a stomach full of pills, a note to his sister. I hadn't seen him in months. And I was never going to see him again. I had no idea he was in pain.

Maybe John was watching me from his perch in heaven, or wherever he is. I imagine when you die and are in the afterlife you get to watch whomever. . . He probably saw I was moving into the bathroom, naked under my robe, and assumed I was going to shower. Instead I hid in the bathroom and cried, maybe as he did in his latent unhappiness. Maybe he was familiar with my cries of desperation and futility. Maybe he related to my worry and my hopelessness. Or maybe he just saw his friend struggling and lonely.

I don't understand dreams. They are not logical and they cannot be used as predictors of the future. They seem to bridge the unconscious with the conscious, like a Tim Burton movie or a Salvador Dali painting. John's unfinished omen is a reminder of what I have and what I would lose if I don't take control of my self and my real life dreams.